Held At Bay

by John Creasey

  “I—thought—he’d—got—me!” gasped Mannering. He stared from the second officer to the cut on his wrist, where the blood was still welling. “Find me a drink, steward.”

  “Hurry, Wyman!” ordered the second officer.

  A steward swung round, pressing through the crowd gathered in the corridor. The officer, a middle-aged man with a leathery face and gold-crowned teeth, looked anxiously at Mannering.

  “Are you all right, sir?”

  “Yes. He—”

  The second officer bent over Granette, saw his swollen lips moving a little and stood up.

  “It’s the Baron all right,” he said. “Unless it’s that fellow who’s impersonating him. You certainly clouted the swine! But this won’t do, I must report. Exactly what happened, sir?”

  Mannering pushed his hand through his hair, and stared dazedly at the officer.

  “Can I—clear my head first? It was pretty dreadful. I didn’t dream—” He was telling himself that after that second blow Granette would be unconscious for at least ten minutes, perhaps for twenty, and he had decided on his story. He had it pat by the time the whisky had arrived.

  “This man – I thought I knew him – asked me to see him after lunch. I—I hadn’t eaten well,” said Mannering, and he blessed the fact that there was corroborative evidence that he had been seasick, and had imagined he knew Digonne. “I came down here and waited in his cabin. He had given me permission, for the only cabin I could get was on the port side. I never liked—”

  “I understand,” said the officer. “And then?”

  “Obviously he didn’t expect me to be here,” said Mannering. “I was dozing, and when I woke up I was astonished to see the man with the mask on – the Baron! I cried out in surprise, and he came at me with the knife and—well, I thought he had finished me, I really did.” Mr. Miller eased his neck and a dozen sympathetic eyes were turned towards him. “I shouted, and your men alarmed him. He was off his guard for a moment, and I hit out for all I was worth. I hope it wasn’t too hard.”

  “He’s not dead,” said the officer. “He’ll be ready for the Old Bailey. I must report to the Captain at once, of course, and he will want to see you before you go ashore. Wyman, send for Dr. Spendow, and have three men in this cabin until I come back.”

  “Yes, sir, certainly.”

  Mannering started.

  “Did you say ashore?”

  “We’re berthing now, sir,” said the other. “Will you wait in this cabin?”

  “In my own, in my own, please,” said Mannering. “Of course I’ll wait. Number 20, I think, or 21. What about this—this fellow?”

  “I’ve given orders about him, sir,” said the officer patiently. He escorted Mannering along the corridor to the door of Number 20. Stewards kept curious passengers away, and Mannering saw with relief that only a steward was with them. The gold-crowned teeth flashed and gave an order.

  “Smith, wait here for me, and don’t let anyone go in. You’ll be all right, Mr. Miller?”

  “Thank you, thank you!” said Mannering.

  He locked the door – and then began to move. He reached the bathroom, slipping the cheek pads out, and the rubber off his teeth. Mannering, not Miller, was appearing. He scrubbed his hair violently, getting most of the grey off, working desperately and tensely. In five minutes John Mannering stood there, upright, well-groomed, debonair, forcing himself to act his part even without an audience.

  He opened the door silently.

  He saw the back of the faithful Smith – placed there, he guessed, to make sure Mr. Miller did not try to make himself scarce. One steward had seemed enough for Mr. Miller. Mannering took a step forward, rapping a rabbit’s punch to the steward’s neck as the man half-turned. A single short cry came as Smith dropped down. Mannering dragged him into the cabin, and even then he showed one of those mad, quixotic impulses typical of the Baron. He slipped his wallet out and pushed a five pound note between the steward’s neck and collar, spending precious seconds that might bring disaster. But the corridor was empty as he went out and closed the door.

  He was at the foot of the nearest companionway when he saw the sympathetic officer turning the corner from the deck, with the short, red-faced Commander of the Orientes.

  Mannering’s heart thudded, his hands were clenched.

  Would he be recognised?

  He could not turn back without raising suspicions, he had to face this out, but as they approached and he waited for them, lighting a cigarette to hide his face, he felt like turning and rushing away.

  Both men glanced at him and passed by.

  Mannering felt the perspiration on his forehead, but his heart was light, triumph was in his mind as he went on, with the mad refrain in his mind that he was through, he had won!

  He mingled with the crowd pressing towards the gangways and the quayside, all anxious to get a comfortable seat on the train to Waterloo, although Mannering’s objective was not London. In the hustle and bustle of the liner’s arrival Southampton Docks was a friendly place, familiar and welcome to the Baron. He had his own passport, and there was nothing to hinder his progress.

  He was on the station platform when the shock came.

  He had not dreamed of trouble, until he saw Chief Inspector William Bristow walking there. Bristow, here!

  Mannering was very close to panic, for Bristow seemed to be making straight for him, but he slipped behind a pillar and a crowd of waiting passengers as Bristow came up. The Chief Inspector turned towards the docks, with Sergeant Tanker Tring close behind him.

  Mannering did not breathe freely until the two were out of sight. He guessed what had brought them: word had been wirelessed the moment there was talk of the Baron on board the Orientes, and Bristow had come down without a moment’s delay.

  But how had he had time?

  Chief Inspector William Bristow, as it happened, had decided that the Orientes was the most likely ship to carry the passenger with the Flame Ruby from New York, and he had come down to meet the liner. As he passed Mannering he was fuming at the delay, for his train had been twenty minutes late. When he reached the Custom’s shed one of the look-out men from the Yard approached him quickly.

  “’Morning, Mr. Bristow, you can smell it, can’t you? You’ve heard?”

  “Heard what, man?” Bristow glared.

  “There’s been a schemozzle on board, and they reckon they’ve got the Baron.”

  The dock detective did not finish, for Bristow was already hurrying towards the liner. He had no trouble to get aboard, and none in finding a steward to lead him to Cabin 8, where the Commander, two subordinates and the ship’s surgeon had been gathered for the past twenty minutes. Another steward outside the door glanced at Bristow’s card and admitted him promptly. Bristow stepped in, prepared to see John Mannering.

  He saw a man on the couch whom he did not recognise, although he learned very soon it was Jules Granette. The ship’s officers all looked grimmer than this occasion seemed to warrant. Bristow stepped forward briskly, recognising the Commander.

  “Good morning, gentlemen.”

  Then Bristow stopped.

  He was looking at the man on the couch, and something there seemed to fascinate him. The man’s lips were not moving and he seemed unnaturally still. Bristow’s eyes flashed to the surgeon, and the man nodded abruptly.

  “I’m afraid so, Inspector. There was a fight, as you’ve probably heard, and this man was knocked out. He fell on a piece of broken knife that was sticking in the carpet, and it pierced through his back to the heart. He lived for ten minutes or so, but—”

  Bristow was feeling very cold.

  “And—is this supposed to be the Baron?”

  “Yes, he—”

  “Where is the other man?” demanded Bristow.

  Ten minutes later he had the whole story, but neither the leather-faced officer nor the Commander had seen Mannering enough to be able to offer anything of a description. But Bristow believed it had been Man
nering, and not a portly gentleman named Miller. The wires were soon humming, and word went out to pick Mannering up when he reached Waterloo, and for men to wait at the Clarges Street flat.

  There was a real chance of getting him this time.

  But as the boat train drew into Waterloo, with the police watching the barriers for John Mannering, the Baron was sitting in the cottage near Listington, with Lorna lazing in a hammock nearby and Ted Lenville standing and looking down on the older man incredulously.

  “So you got them all, Mannering? Every damned stone!”

  “Oh, he’s remarkably clever,” said Lorna sleepily. “He might get killed one day, but that won’t worry him, for he has the luck of the devil.”

  “We’re getting to know each other too well,” smiled Mannering. “What time did you get here?”

  “I was here all night,” said Lorna.

  “I arrived just after seven,” said Lenville. “Is that all right?”

  “You are both able to offer evidence that I’ve been here since seven o’clock, even at some risk to Lorna’s reputation.”

  “You took that years ago,” Lorna said.

  “Call it luck if you like,” said Lenville, “I think it’s damned clever. They can’t prove you were on board the Orientes, even if any of the passengers thought they saw you coming off.”

  “Didn’t I tell you how clever he was,” murmured Lorna.

  Some time later they realised the narrowness of the Baron’s escape. Had he been unable to “prove” his presence at the cottage, there would have been a more serious charge than burglary and housebreaking to face. But Bristow found himself against a brick wall again, for Lenville was as loyal as Lorna Fauntley.

  “And after all,” said Mannering to Bristow on the following day, “Granette isn’t the type of man who ought to be around, Bill. Try and ease your conscience with that and forget to look for the man who killed him.”

  Don Manuel y Alverez de Castilla, tall, white-haired and with the dignity and courtesy of a century before, looked tolerantly at Anita, who was happy and excited that night, the five jewels almost forgotten in a sudden discovery that Ted Lenville was no longer a tongue-tied and rather hesitant young man. She asked for no explanation, and Lenville felt remarkably happy. Juan de Castilla was a little subdued, but Mannering and Lorna Fauntley were in spirits high enough even to make Don Manuel start laughing.

  It was over the dessert that Mannering first broached the subject of the five Jewels of Castilla.

  He did so quickly, and abruptly, anxious to see the Don’s reaction, but his smile was lazy, his voice casual.

  “You’ve learned that the Baron is after the Castilla jewels, Don Manuel. Or hasn’t Anita told you?”

  The old man’s eyes sparkled suddenly, and Mannering could sense his anger.

  “She has not spoken, Mr. Mannering. But I read the papers, and I understand. First Price, then Salmonson, then Van Royton. This man is getting the five jewels that mean so much to us. And then, I doubt not, he will sell to the highest market. That is your belief?”

  “It’s pretty close,” said Mannering. Lorna felt that she wanted to scream, Lenville wondered whether Mannering would go too far, Anita, Juan and Don Manuel were thinking only of the Crown of Castilla, those five precious gems.

  “I don’t know, though, the Baron’s a funny customer, if he has them he might come to you—”

  Don Manuel shrugged his shoulders.

  “It is doubtful, I think.”

  “You mean he won’t expect you to buy?”

  “Perhaps not,” said Don Manuel, and then Anita interrupted, as the Baron had hoped.

  “But, John, if only he would offer them here! No one need know they are the separate jewels that have been stolen, need they? In the setting, in the Castilla Crown, they are themselves, they are ours.”

  “Perhaps your father doesn’t think like that,” said Mannering. “He may think Van Royton and others bought them in good faith.”

  There was a momentary silence before the Spaniard drew a deep breath.

  “I have not heard that the Castilla Jewels have been stolen except from me,” said Don Manuel y Alvarez de Castilla softly. “Certain similar stones, yes, but who is to know they are the same? I made an offer to buy them back at twenty thousand pounds for each stone. I would ask no questions not even of the Baron. In addition, I would perhaps indemnify those men who have lost their jewels—”

  Mannering laughed.

  “If they ever came your way, I hope you wouldn’t, Don Manuel. The insurance companies will have done that job. The buyers – Panneraude, Van Royton and the others, all knew they’d bought stolen goods. Some charity would be far better off with a gift. But good Lord, we’re almost being serious! Anita, I can see you’re dying to dance.”

  “I will rest up here,” said Don Manuel quietly, “and perhaps you will spare me ten minutes a little later, Mr. Mannering?”

  Mannering went to the de Castilla suite half an hour later, to find Don Manuel sitting in an easy chair with a cigar between his fingers.

  “Don’t get up,” said Mannering, pulling a chair near the Don’s. “You wanted me?”

  “I wanted to tell you,” said Don Manuel y Alvarez de Castilla, “that I believe I understand. You are—an emissary of the Baron on some matters?”

  Mannering’s eyes were glowing.

  “I don’t know who the Baron is,” he said, “but he once rendered me a considerable service. Whenever I can, I like to help him. Provided he can rely on you to keep the five stones for Anita, I think you will be soon getting an offer. Of course your silence is a condition.”

  “For Anita,” said Don Manuel slowly. “Who else should I even think of? Sometimes I think I am getting too old, Mannering, for there was a time when I could have admired the Baron even more perhaps than I do now. As for silence – we shall keep the five Jewels of Castilla in their setting, hidden from all but the closest friends. No one who knows their description as single gems will ever recognise them together. Some people would say perhaps that it is dishonest, but the Baron would not.”

  “I don’t think he would, knowing Anita. When the offer comes, Don Manuel, you will send a cheque to the address the Baron will give, and another to that charity. The Baron will ask ten thousand for each stone, Don Manuel. Your price was twenty.”

  “That is very generous,” said de Castilla. He leaned forward, and their hands were together as there came sharp, running footsteps in the passage. The door was flung open violently, and Anita stood there; a breathless, wild-eyed Anita with a flaming red ruby in her hand.

  “Father – it is impossible, but look—the Flame! The Flame! It has come, a messenger brought it to me. I almost fainted and then I rushed up here!”

  She paused for breath. The old man smiled at Mannering, but before either of them could speak Juan came hurrying. Juan, with his dark eyes angry and his fists clenched.

  “Anita, you little idiot, why did you rush off like that? It was a sensation, people are talking even now. Lorna dancing with Ted, too.”

  “The Flame!” said Anita simply.

  The Baron saw his expression of disbelief, then saw the exultation in his eyes, the surging happiness in Anita’s, and the contentment in the Don’s. He knew then that the five Jewels of Castilla were more than precious stones.

  He slipped outside, closing the door quietly as Lenville and Lorna came along. Lenville was looking worried, laughter was lurking in Lorna’s eyes.

  “I shouldn’t go in at the moment,” advised Mannering. “Someone sent Anita the Flame Ruby, and I believe the Baron has made Don Manuel a proposal. It’s surprising how many amoral folk there are in the world. Your prospective father-in-law, Ted, might almost be called an accessory after the fact.”

  “You mean he’s bought the others?” Lenville demanded. “From you, knowing that you—”

  “I didn’t make it quite as obvious as that,” said the Baron. “Don’t go in for crime, Ted, it isn’t your best
medium. Try to give Anita something else to think about other than jewels, though, in—well, say ten minutes. Lorna and I won’t be back tonight, but I think you’ll manage without us.”

  Series Information

  Published or to be published by

  House of Stratus

  Dates given are those of first publication

  Alternative titles in brackets

  ‘The Baron’ (47 titles) (writing as Anthony Morton)

  ‘Department ‘Z’’ (28 titles)

  ‘Dr. Palfrey Novels’ (34 titles)

  ‘Gideon of Scotland Yard’ (22 titles)

  ‘Inspector West’ (43 titles)

  ‘Sexton Blake’ (5 titles)

  ‘The Toff’ (59 titles)

  along with:

  The Masters of Bow Street

  This epic novel embraces the story of the Bow Street Runners and the Marine Police, forerunners of the modern police force, who were founded by novelist Henry Fielding in 1748. They were the earliest detective force operating from the courts to enforce the decisions of magistrates. John Creasey’s account also gives a fascinating insight into family life of the time and the struggle between crime and justice, and ends with the establishment of the Metropolitan Police after the passing of Peel’s Act in 1829.

  ‘The Baron’ Series

  These Titles can be read as a series, or randomly as standalone novels

  Meet the Baron (The Man in the Blue Mask) (1937)

  The Baron Returns (The Return of the Blue Mask) (1937)

  The Baron Again (Salute Blue Mask) (1938)

  The Baron at Bay (Blue Mask at Bay) (1938)

  Alias the Baron (Alias Blue Mask) (1939)

  The Baron at Large (Challenge Blue Mask!) (1939)

  Versus the Baron (Blue Mask Strikes Again) (1940)

  Call for the Baron (Blue Mask Victorious) (1940)

  The Baron Comes Back (1943)

  A Case for the Baron (1945)

  Reward for the Baron (1945)

  Career for the Baron (1946)