Held At Bay

by John Creasey

  “It doesn’t look pretty,” said the Baron harshly. “And nor do you. Remember this, when you think of trying to corner the Baron again.”

  He picked up the knife idly, still with that queer brittleness, almost a weakness, strange to him, and Granette’s breath hissed. Mannering laughed, but he had to steady himself against the bed rail.

  “Scared, Granette? It’s different when the odds are reversed, isn’t it? But I prefer this—”

  He moved to the wardrobe quickly and he had an automatic from his coat pocket before Granette realised what he was doing. He swung round, levelling the gun at Granette’s face, and the Frenchman tried to hedge away. Mannering’s voice was still harsh.

  “Don’t worry to get comfortable, Granette. Explain one or two facts. First, where’s the emerald you took from Price?”

  There was no fight left in the man.

  “In—in Kelworthy’s safe. It has a double bottom.”

  “That’ll do,” said the Baron. His knuckles were smarting where the skin was raw, and the right side of his neck was stiff. That knife cut would take some explaining. His pyjama coat was coated with blood near the neck, and liberally sprayed down the front. He realised how close he had been to death as he took the Crown from Granette’s pocket. “Granette, listen to me. Don’t try to get van Royten’s ruby. Don’t try any tricks with Anita de Castilla. Don’t come after me again. Next time I’ll kill you.”

  Granette lurched forward, from the bed to his knees, and the sight sickened the Baron. He stepped back, evading those clutching hands, while Granette lifted a terror-stricken face upwards.

  “I’ll do anything, anything!”

  “You’ll do what I tell you. Go over to that desk, and start writing. I want a confession, in English, that you robbed Archibald Price and put on the Baron’s disguise.”

  Granette did not try to fight. Mannering watched as he wrote quickly, despite his trembling hands. The confession was more comprehensive than he had expected, and there was a deep sense of triumph in his mind as he put it on the table and moved his gun towards Granette.

  “I’ll use that if you try any tricks again. The moment there’s trouble, it will go to Scotland Yard. Keep out of my affairs. Now get out of here.”

  Granette was trembling all the way to the door, and the Baron watched him disappear along the passage. His face was set as he relocked the door. He grimaced when he saw the mess he was in, and felt suddenly weak.

  No one with his throat cut fatally could have looked much worse. The knife had pierced the skin and flesh on the right side and the wound was nearly half an inch deep in the centre. It would not have needed much more pressure to have pierced the jugular: something under split seconds had divided the Baron from death.

  As he cleaned up, he knew that he would have to have stitches in the wound. He felt sick, too, stiff and pain-racked, and yet there was no one he could approach.

  There were Labolle and Gussi!

  Mannering dressed as quickly as he could, without putting on a collar and tie, wrapped a scarf loosely round his neck and slipped outside. Jean was not there. It was five o’clock, the darkest hour before dawn, but outside Paris was waking. A taxi came along.

  The journey seemed an endless torture, and it seemed an age before Mannering made someone hear him. The cabaret was closed, grey dawn was beginning to spread across the sky. Mannering leaned against the doorpost and he was drooping forward when the door was opened at last and Gussi’s fat figure was outlined against the dim light.

  “Mon Dieu!” gasped the fat man, and suddenly his arm was about Mannering’s waist, steady, comforting. There was no need to think now. “’Ave care, M’sieu, ‘ave care! Sapristi, they ‘ave cut your t’roat, hein? Lisette, Lisette!”

  Mannering heard him calling, but he did not see La Supreme as she joined her husband, felt nothing as they stretched him on a couch. He was barely conscious when Lisette – alias La Supreme – telephoned for a doctor and Gussi tried hard to staunch the bleeding that had started again.

  He was conscious of a vague satisfaction that this was not happening at the hotel, and then the small room went dark, seeming to whirl about him. Blackness came, complete and merciful.

  At the very moment when a doctor was entering the Cabaret des Belles Femmes Jules Granette was talking over the long-distance wire to Jacob Kelworthy, at Hampstead. He spoke guardedly, but gave the names of Wilson and Watson, and the safe deposits where the other two jewels were supposed to be secreted. And: “It will be best for me to visit America now, I think.”

  “I suppose so,” grunted Kelworthy. The news of the failure to get the Crown had depressed him. “Send Lenville back to me.”

  “I should be careful there,” said Granette. “He is fond of the girl Anita.”

  “That might be useful, very useful,” said Kelworthy. “That’s good, Granette, perhaps we’re not doing so badly. And you told Mannering the Sea of Fire was in my safe, you say?”

  “Yes, it was all I could do.”

  “I’ll make sure it isn’t there much longer. And we might find something else to put in the safe. I think that’s a very good idea. Some kind of electric current, perhaps, enough to make him lose consciousness.”

  “I think that would be excellent,” said Granette.

  “Yes, excellent, excellent! Don’t forget I want to see Lenville, don’t forget! I’m getting a lot of ideas tonight; somehow I think we’ll find a way of getting rid of that villain of yours, yes that villain!”

  Kelworthy banged the receiver down, completely carried away by his new idea, an idea he would twist and turn until it yielded good results.

  Granette was smiling painfully. It was better by far to leave the Baron to Kelworthy, his own nerves needed steadying before he tackled the man again. But he would have the opportunity of resting in America, and after he had secured the Flame Ruby from Van Royton, there would be plenty of time for Mannering. There would be no talking then.

  Chapter Nineteen

  Rest For The Baron

  “But I tell you, Gussi, I must get back to the Bristol, and soon.”

  “M’sieu Baron, it is not possible. You are weak, you cannot even stand. I, Gussi, tell you. And M’sieu le Medecin say you stay there, t’ree—four days. For your life, it must be!”

  Mannering was leaning back on soft white pillows and with a pleasant feeling of laziness but a nasty pain in his neck. He raised his right hand weakly from the coverlet.

  “But my friends—”

  “Ah! Vos amis! Lisette, she go tell them you go away. You visit la Suisse, Lucerne, Menton, toutes les places, M’sieu! That is o’-right!”

  “It sounds easy,” said the Baron, “but I don’t know whether it will work. I—Gussi!”

  “M’sieu, you will be quiet, please. I ‘ave two men, you and Benedicte, hurt bad, an’ I cannot send him away, I ‘ave to look after them. You will talk, talk, talk! It is wrong, M’sieu.”

  “Gussi,” said Mannering quietly, “there’s one way out of my troubles, and when you’ve done that I’ll be quiet.”

  “But, M’sieu—”

  “Look here,” said Mannering irritably, “do you want me to get up and start walking?” He gripped the side of the bed and made as though to get out, but Gussi stopped him, his plump hands gentle but firm.

  “You will open the cut, you will bleed to death.”

  Gussi and the doctor were right: Mannering could no more get up and walk than he could repeat that desperate jump across the balconies. He closed his eyes to steady himself.

  “There is a lady – a Mam’selle Fauntley – F-A—” Mannering spelled out Lorna’s name carefully. “She is at the Hotel de Lazare, in Paris, or at the Bristol, in Menton. Telephone them, find her and tell her I want to see her urgently in Paris. Give her this address.” Each word was an effort.

  “Mais oui, M’sieu, je vais!”

  “And, Gussi. My room—at the Bristol.” Mannering was suddenly desperately aware of the room. “Blood
everywhere—”

  “It shall be clean, it shall be clean!” exclaimed Gussi, as though he was swearing that they should not pass, and before Mannering could speak again he was out of the room. Hazy pictures floated through Mannering’s mind; odd, nightmare fancies. He dropped into a sleep that was half-unconsciousness, while outside Lisette was cutting a pyjama jacket into pieces and feeding the fire with them. Mannering had stuffed it into his pockets before he had left the Bristol, and it was stiff with blood.

  It was afternoon before Mannering came round again. He opened his eyes, tried to turn his head, but the pain stopped him. A quiet, half-laughing voice came to his ears, and he felt a cool hand on his forehead.

  Lorna!

  “No tricks, John, they’re not allowed today. What on earth have you been doing with yourself?”

  “Thank God you’re here,” breathed Mannering.

  He was still silent when Lisette arrived with a bowl of steaming broth. The aroma put new interest into Mannering, and soon he smiled at Lorna with a gleam in his eyes.

  “I suppose you’re thinking I nearly met my match.”

  “Good Lord, why? A scratch like that won’t hurt you.”

  “Dear liar,” said Mannering, for he could see that Lorna’s nerves were stretched to breaking pitch. “Where did Gussi find you?”

  “We were still in Paris. I’ve read about the affair at Panneraude’s, and that you got away. Did you get what you wanted?”

  “And lost it and found it again,” said Mannering. “You might call it an exciting night. Anita de Castilla is at the Bristol, and—good God! That room must be a shambles.”

  “It’s all right,” Lorna said. “Lisette has a friend there, a chambermaid. There’s no need to worry.”

  “Bless Lisette,” said Mannering. “You should see her dance.” After a pause he went on with a change of tone: “Tell Anita to be careful of Lenville, sweetheart.”

  Five minutes later Lorna left, feeling more worried than she had before, for he was very weak. She went to the Bristol immediately and found Anita in her bedroom, concerned and anxious about Mannering. At sight of Lorna, Anita’s eyes lit up.

  “Lorna, how good to see you! You know where John—”

  “He had an urgent message and has left Paris for a few days,” Lorna improvised quickly. “He seemed anxious you should get back to London, to Juan.”

  “He would!” retorted Anita. “I do not think he likes Teddy.”

  “He’s fond of you, Anita, and I think something that happened yesterday worried him.”

  “He did not tell you what?”

  “No,” said Lorna.

  “That is like John! You are a lucky woman, Lorna.” The naïveté was lost in sincerity, and Anita’s dark eyes glowed. “What did he say?”

  “That he hoped you would go straight back to London. He wants to talk to you about Ted Lenville. Anita, I don’t know what it was about, but if this is—just a short trip to Paris with Ted, don’t—”

  “It was not that!” flashed Anita. “Am I a loose woman? But I am a little fool. I am not ungrateful, Lorna, I will return at once. Teddy has already returned. On the first train, for a friend who is ill or some such. I would have gone, but I was worried about John. You are free for dinner, yes?”

  “I’m afraid not,” Lorna said, “but I’d love some tea. You’ll really go back?”

  “It is a promise,” said Anita.

  It was late that night before Lorna was able to talk to Mannering. He was stronger although his pallor was unusual, and his eyes were unnaturally bright. But he insisted on telling her the whole story.

  “And so I’ve three, Granette still has one and so has Van Royton. I don’t see much chance of getting to New York in the near future.”

  “You’ll be in bed another three days, and you have to take it easy for a week or two,” said Lorna. “As far as I can understand, you needed five minutes more to bleed to death. You mustn’t overdo it.”

  Mannering eyed her, bitter thoughts chasing one another through his mind. To be so far on the road to success and then to be hauled back like this was intolerable, but Lorna was right.

  He shrugged his shoulders.

  “I won’t even try.”

  “Bless you,” said Lorna, and she went on brightly: “I’ve told mother you’ve had an accident with the foils, and she’s going to Menton alone. I’ll stay here as long as you need me. You’re going on with the search for the five jewels?”

  “With three in the bag, it would haunt me the rest of my life if I didn’t,” said Mannering.

  “If Leverson has the Isabella and the Desire Diamond, you’ve nothing to worry about with them. What are you going to do about this one?” Lorna touched the wallet, where the Crown of Castile was still hidden.

  “Take it to a man named Grionde, on the Rue de Platte, will you?” said Mannering. “He’s Leverson’s recommendation, and there’s no need to doubt him. What are the papers saying about the Panneraude job?”

  “I’ll bring a paper in later. You try to sleep.”

  In fact, he slept soundly.

  Next morning he smiled grimly at the headlines in the French Press about the Baron’s outrage; the Baron would soon be as notorious here as in England. The chief longing in his mind during three days in bed was a longing to be in New York. He guessed Granette would defy him, and that the man was probably on the way to Van Royton now. It could not be helped, but—

  Mannering spent three more days in Paris, returning to the Bristol on the sixth day after the fight. His leave-taking with Gussi and his wife, as well as Labolle, had been almost tearful. Mannering knew he had three really reliable friends in Paris.

  Grionde still had care of the Crown. Mannering had telephoned Flick Leverson and been assured that Grionde was reliable in every way. It was better there than in England for the time being.

  Lorna was patient and long-suffering then and during the week in a cottage on the Sussex coast that followed. The Baron chafed at the delay, but on his first day in England a mile walk was as much as he could manage.

  But when Flick Leverson came from London, Mannering’s impatience almost gave way.

  For the fence had news.

  “Granette flew to New York yesterday,” he reported. “I imagine you expected that.”

  “I did,” grumbled the Baron, “but I’m no happier at having it confirmed.”

  “I’ve warned you about Granette,” Leverson said quietly.

  “And I appreciate it, Flick. But while Granette and I are still operating there will always be trouble. He isn’t likely to accept defeat, although Kelworthy might, and Olling certainly would. Have you see anything of young Lenville?”

  Leverson’s white hair, ruffling in a soft breeze from the sea, seemed to stand on end. From inside the cottage came Lorna’s voice and that of the housekeeper who was preserving the propriety.

  “He spends a lot of time with Miss de Castilla and also at Kelworthy’s, in Hampstead. I have a feeling they are planning something. Kelworthy might possibly give up, but I class him as dangerous. You are fighting men who are both ruthless and unscrupulous. The type who might well plan to murder you. I am not being melodramatic. You know that.”

  “I’ve had some first-hand tuition,” said Mannering, and his mouth was set. “Whether I keep working or not the danger is still there. The confession from Granette is enough to keep him worried, and he’ll work against me through others.”

  “Providing you understand the danger, I’m satisfied,” said Leverson. “And if you need help, you have only to call on me.”

  “My personal opinion,” said Lorna Fauntley unexpectedly from the doorway, “is that you should both be locked in separate cells, you’re living threats to the sanctity of property. Who feels like tea?”

  “I’d love some. Then I’ll have to be getting back to town,” said Leverson.

  It was the first time Lorna and Leverson had met, but they took to each other. Yet Lorna was very uneasy. She knew the
visit had started Mannering planning in his mind again, and she sensed more of the danger from Granette.

  But it was on the following morning that the Baron’s patience broke all bounds. For in screaming headlines across the front page of the Daily Cry ran the announcement:

  THE BARON IN NEW YORK

  FAMOUS COLLECTOR

  NEW VICTIM RECEIVES SERIOUS KNIFE INJURIES

  Mannering read the headlines, then stared ahead of him for several minutes without reading the letterpress. Lorna coming out of the cottage to the garden where he had met the paper-boy, saw his tension and her cheeks paled. From inside the cottage came the voice of the housekeeper, talking of breakfast.

  “What is it?” asked Lorna, and Mannering showed her. They stood together, reading how Julian Van Royton, of Long Island, New York, had interrupted a burglar dressed in the familiar dark clothes of the Baron and with a similar mask and gas-pistol. Van Royton had tried to raise the alarm, but the Baron – said the Daily Cry – had attacked him with such violence that it was hours before he regained consciousness.

  And the Baron had escaped, with fifty thousand pounds’ worth of jewels.

  “Here” went on the Daily Cry, “is yet another example of the way the Baron is degenerating; of the viciousness of his attacks. Success has gone to his head, murder will follow his raids unless the police of all countries unite to make sure that this menace is caught and made to suffer the severest penalties for his crimes.

  “Among the valuable gems lost by Mr. Van Royton is the famous Venate Ruby and Aris Sapphire – both stones of renown through centuries – and an unnamed ruby which experts declare to be perfect in every detail. It weighs—”

  Mannering drew a deep breath.

  “So he got it.” He paused, then asked irritably: “What the dickens is Sarah yelling about?”

  “Breakfast,” said Lorna.

  “Breakfast’s an idea,” said Mannering. “Then London, my sweet. We’ll see Bristow before lunch. Coming?”

  “We’d better hurry,” said Lorna, and Mannering actually chuckled as she hurried towards the cottage. She was the one person in this world on whom he could rely never to let him down. She knew there could be no more waiting, no more holding back. He had to fight for the five Jewels of Castilla, for his life, and for the reputation of the Baron.