Help From The Baron

by John Creasey

  “Yes.”

  “John,” she said, startling him by the use of his Christian name.

  “Yes?”

  “Do you really think you’ve any hope of finding Joy?”

  “Yes.”

  She looked at him for a long time, and didn’t speak again until footsteps sounded just outside the room. Francesca’s. Then “You’re either a rogue,” Susan said, “or a genius. I’d better go with Francesca and find out if I’ve any maternal instinct to spare for her.”

  “Sue,” said Mannering.

  “Yes, Johnny?”

  “Don’t go with her. Someone wants to kill her. If she should die . . .”

  “Gosh!” exclaimed Susan, using the word almost as an oath, “of course, I’m under suspicion!” She held her breath, then expelled it slowly. “All right, I’ll go home and wait like a good little she-devil!”

  The policewoman opened the door at Francesca’s flat. Francesca looked startled at sight of her, and the dazed look faded from her eyes. She didn’t speak at first, but when Mannering went into the little sitting-room with her, she said: “I don’t want anyone here with me, except Cissie. Do you know where Cissie is?”

  “No, but I expect she’ll soon be back,”

  “I don’t want anyone else here,” Francesca insisted. “Please will you send that woman away? I’m tired of the police and questions and being watched. I just want to be alone. Can’t you understand?”

  “I think I do. I’m not sure that it’s wise . . .”

  “I don’t want that woman here!”

  “All right, Francesca,” Mannering said gently, “I’ll ask the police if they’ll take her away. And I’ll telephone you. Anything more I can do for the moment?”

  “No,” she said quickly, and then moved towards him and touched his hand. Her eyes looked huge. “Forgive me, I don’t mean to be ungrateful. I am very grateful, for - for everything. I don’t feel as if I’m here, it’s as if - as if part of me has been cut away.”

  “I know,” Mannering said, and squeezed her hands. “I won’t be long.”

  He went out.

  The policewoman came to the door with him.

  “Don’t leave her alone for a minute,” Mannering said urgently. “Keep the doors open, and listen if you can’t see her. She’ll order you to go, but hold on like grim death.”

  “I will,” promised the policewoman. She was a solid-looking forty, her ample white blouse and black tie and skirt giving her a uniformed look. “I won’t let her kill herself. She’ll soon be over this stage, I think.”

  “I hope you’re right,” said Mannering fervently.

  “Bill.”

  “Yes,” said Bristow, into the telephone.

  “Francesca Lisle’s back at her own flat, with your police-woman, who thinks she is waiting for a chance to slash her wrists or kill herself somehow. I couldn’t agree more. Your responsibility now.”

  “I’ll see to it.”

  “Thanks. Another thing. Simon Lessing’s vanished. He telephoned Susan Pengelly and said that he was a prisoner, held with Joy. That may be true. I’m going out on a sortie tonight, and it might be very useful if the police in the St. John’s Wood area were as thick as garden peas in a wet summer, but very modest and retiring. If a few extra patrol cars without the word police showing and with the patrolmen out of uniform happened to be in that part of the world I think it might be useful.”

  There was a long silence.

  In it, Bristow was obviously fighting against the temptation to demand more information; or to call Mannering a fool for taking chances.

  Bristow the man won the fight.

  “All right,” he said.

  Lorna was back, and in the study when Mannering telephoned Bristow. As Mannering put the receiver down, she said very slowly, almost hurtfully “I suppose it’s no use asking you not to go.”

  “I must go,” Mannering said simply.

  “Josh Larraby may not be right about that house. Or he may not be right about being unobserved.” Lorna was uttering each word with great care, as if it were difficult to select them even in their simplicity. She sat beneath a soft, warm light. Every feature of her face was dear to him; and he could guess the sharpness of the fear which stabbed at her. “Scoby has been very smart, hasn’t he? You’ve said so yourself. Perhaps he didn’t slip up like that. Perhaps he meant Larraby to see where the youth went, hoping you would go there tonight.”

  Mannering moved across to her, put a hand on her arm, and smiled gently.

  “I think he did.”

  “Then surely Bristow . . .” Lorna began, but didn’t finish. She moved her hand, squeezed his, then jumped up, bustling. “All right, I won’t argue anymore! What time will you be going out?”

  “About nine, I think.”

  “As you are, or - with make-up.” She meant: “Or disguised?” When he chose, he could perform a Hollywood artiste’s job upon himself, could change his appearance so that in the right light he could even fool Lorna; he had a remarkable record of having fooled the police.

  “As I am, tonight,” he said.

  She caught her breath. “You . . .” She stopped, and the pressure of her fingers was very tight on his. “You won’t go defenceless, will you?”

  “No, my sweet.”

  They looked at each other for a long time; or what seemed a long time. It was seven o’clock. They were alone in the flat, for Ethel was out for the evening. They were alone, and at a time like this their possession of each other was urgent and vital.

  “John,” she said, “is it really worth it? You hardly know the Lessing girl, and you don’t know Francesca well.”

  He didn’t answer, but slid his arm round her waist, and they went out of the room.

  It was dark. The wind off the Thames was becoming so strong that if one listened in the quiet, one could hear it stirring the surface of the tireless river, and could hear the water lapping against the banks. No river traffic moved, few cars sped along the Embankment. Mannering searched the shadows of trees and houses, doorways and corners, but saw no one. He walked past Francesca’s flat, and saw a light in the front window. He wondered whether the same policewoman were there, and what was happening between them.

  Police were watching the flat.

  No one watched or followed him.

  He walked briskly towards the main road, reached it and had the luck he wanted; a taxi appeared with its sign lighted. It swung into the kerb when he beckoned. He relaxed in the corner, lit a cigarette, then carefully checked all the things he had brought with him. Deliberation and careful planning were a prequisite of success.

  One 32 automatic, fully loaded; one extra clip of ammunition - he had a licence; one innocent-looking cigarette-lighter-gun - no licence.

  One small, extremely selective tool-kit, was wound about his waist. It restricted freedom of movement a little, but whenever he needed full freedom he could nip the kit off and tuck it into a pocket. The tools were all beautifully hinged - saws, hack-saw, chisel, screw-driver, jemmy - this last in the form of a very thick cold chisel hinged in two places. There was blind cord; thin rubber gloves which stretched skin tight, for quick use; adhesive plaster for his finger-tips; four phials of ammonia for use in emergency, a hammer, a glass-cutter of the latest pattern - these and everything else that a burglar could desire, even if he were masquerading under the soubriquet of “cracksman”.

  The tools were comparatively new; the technique of using them was of the days of the Baron.

  At times it was necessary for him to use the make-up, when a burglary might lead him to the magistrates’ court, the Old Bailey and Dartmoor or its equivalent. There was no such risk today, for there would be no come-back from the police. The risk was far greater from Ephraim Scoby and his evil men.

  Larraby might have been fooled.

  If he had been, then Scoby was probably expecting Mannering to make a bold effort to break in, trying to rescue Joy and Simon Lessing. If one followed the newspapers,
that was the kind of thing that Mannering was likely to do. Letting him know where the prisoners were - even letting him think that he knew - was the surest bait known to man. If Larraby had been fooled, Scoby was almost certainly waiting for a burglar.

  Mannering did not intend to break in anywhere that night. He was more likely to have to break out.

  22: 93 FORTH ROAD

  It was dark in the side streets.

  It was dark when one looked across the grimy brick wall surrounding the silenced terraces and the now soft and demure green Lord’s; darker when one walked in the shadow of the wall. The lights of traffic seemed very bright and, perhaps because of Mannering’s mood, the noise of traffic sounded very subdued.

  He did not know which of the passing cars were police cars, or which of the men who walked slowly were detectives in plain clothes. He was quite sure that Bristow would use every available man from the Yard and from the local Division, and be expecting an emergency call. He probably guessed that Mannering had not told him exactly where he was going because a party of police converging too near would have warned Scoby and his men.

  Mannering saw the street name at a corner five minutes after paying off his taxi; black on a white enamel name-plate read: Forth Road. The road was long and wide. The houses looked tall, dark and narrow, each with a gate, four stone steps and a shallow porch. Street-lamps at every fifty yards broke the darkness, but between each pair was a patch of murky shadow where men might lurk unseen.

  Lighted windows stretched away into the distance, too; curtained, yellow, yet helpful.

  A semicircular fanlight showed creamy white, the black number on it was 108; and against it fluttered a big moth. It reminded Mannering of the body in the morgue, the birthmark and Francesca’s cold, clutching fingers.

  He walked briskly.

  He passed a man who stood by the gate of the house. Although Mannering was on the look-out for such a man, it came as a shock. His heart began to beat faster. The man had selected a spot between street-lamps, and where there were no lighted windows or fanlights. He stood quite still. Mannering walked past him, and didn’t glance over his shoulder. He didn’t need to, for the man began to walk after him.

  He saw another man, on the other side of the road.

  He had to cross the road to reach Number 93. He crossed. He knew that he could just be seen, but didn’t know whether to expect an attack.

  Number 93 had a dimly lit fanlight.

  He did not hesitate, but turned into the gate. It was of wrought iron, and squeaked. He mounted the four steps and waited on the porch until it had stopped squeaking, knowing full well that he could be seen from the fanlight.

  He heard no sound of movement.

  At least they were not planning to attack until they knew what he was going to do.

  He took out a pencil pocket torch, shone it on the door, found both bell and knocker, banged the knocker and kept his finger on the bell. The knocking made a rude attack on the evening quiet. The bell sounded a long way off.

  He stopped knocking and ringing.

  Footsteps came from inside the house, but not from behind him. He did not know how close the two men were, but waited.

  Scoby opened the door.

  Ephraim Scoby must be obviously very, very sure of himself. Either that, or he had a nerve so strong that nothing really worried him. He was here, quite brazenly. The silent, watching men told Mannering that he had been expected; or that someone had been. Scoby could not be sure that Mannering had not told the police, but behaved as if there were no risk of any kind.

  He smiled without parting his lips.

  “So Larraby told you.” He stood aside, and called softly, throwing his voice beyond Mannering into the street. “Keep your eyes skinned, Charley.”

  “Okay,” floated back.

  “Come in,” Scoby said. He closed the door when Mannering stepped into a hall about four feet wide. It was dimly lit, the bare walls were papered with imitation oak panelling. “You didn’t give the police this address, did you?”

  “Nervous?” asked Mannering.

  “You’d better hope you didn’t give the police this address,” Scoby said, “and you’d better tell me the truth, Mannering. Because if I’m in any doubt, I’m going to telephone Bristow. Bristow always acts fast when he gets a telephone message from me. This time, I should tell him to go to Quinns. You know, that curio shop in Mayfair, where everything costs twelve times the price it would in Golders Green. I should tell him to look in three places, pal. The second right-hand drawer of the Sheraton dressing-table in the main show-room; in the vizor of the coat of chain mail which has a bloodstain visible after seven hundred years; and in a little African bronze head, the top of which can be unscrewed. Do you know what he would find there, Mannering?”

  Mannering said: “I can guess.” His heart was beginning to pound.

  “You d probably guess right,” sneered Scoby. “Hot stuff, Mannering, as hot as it comes. There was a job done out at Hampstead last week. By a bit of bad luck, the man whose house was burgled came home at the wrong time, and he got his. The killer got scared and unloaded quick, and I picked it up for a song. I had a man playing customer in Quinns this afternoon, and another to attract the second assistant. Then I made a telephone call. The stuff was planted on you then.” Scoby paused, as if to make sure that the facts and all the implications had sunk in, then snapped: “Police know you’ve come?”

  “No,” said Mannering.

  “You’d better be right. Let’s go in here.”

  Scoby didn’t have to open a door, for a man whom Mannering hadn’t seen before was standing by it, and opened it for him. It was almost opposite the foot of the stairs. A long passage led alongside the stairs, and there was a light at the far end. There was a light at the landing, too. Another man stood up there, looking down. He didn’t speak. Scoby had studied the psychology of nervous pressure and had this all nicely planned. Mannering, whose nerve was as strong as the next man’s, could not keep down the pounding at his heart.

  “So if the police turn up, they get the news about Quinns,” Scoby went on. “You want to know something, Mannering?”

  He pushed the door wider open. The watching man just stood and stared at Mannering, balefully. He looked like a cretin, and carried a hammer. He didn’t say a word. Mannering went in - and it was like walking into a brick wall in the darkness.

  Simon Lessing was in here.

  It had been possible from the beginning to sense the evil in these men; to know, from the moment when Francesca’s body had been found floating sluggishly in a foot of water, that they were deadly.

  Simon was stripped to the waist. There were at least three burn scars on his chest, and a smear of blood on his shoulders. He was sitting on an upright chair, with rope round his waist and ankles, and his arms tied behind him. Sweat glistened on his forehead. His crisp brown hair looked as if someone had pulled him along the ground by it. But he was breathing evenly, and there was defiance in his eyes.

  Mannering realised then how well Susan knew Simon Lessing.

  The room was long and narrow, had a table and several upright chairs, two easy-chairs, and in the far corner, a window shuttered from the inside with wooden boards.

  Scoby grinned one-sidedly.

  “I don’t think you could take what Lessing’s taken,” he said, “but maybe you’ll have the sense not to make us find out.” He made one of those deliberate pauses. Then: “I want you to understand one thing. I’m going all the way. I’m not interested in half-measures. I had those Fioras for four years, and I hadn’t been able to cash in on them yet. I killed the old fool who had them to sell, and I’ve killed and will kill again to make sure I get them back. If I lose, I lose. I know what the stakes are. I knew there was a risk that you’d bring the police tonight, but I’m a gambler, Mannering, and I gambled that you wouldn’t. You’re a sentimental fool over women. I’ve been studying you and your record ever since I knew that Lisle was working with you.”


  Mannering said: “You tried to scare me by putting the police on to me. Where do you think that could get you?”

  “So you don’t know.” The handsome face was set in a sneer. “I know your kind, Mannering. You’ve got the Fioras. With the police after you, you have to get rid of them quick. And you will. I’ve got your signature on that receipt, and it isn’t forged.” The sneer became a grin. “You gave a pal of mine a signature on a statement he’d made, days ago. The statement was written in ink that faded, and the details of the Fioras were written in afterwards. I cover everything, don’t I?”

  Mannering said: “You’re still wrong. I haven’t the Fioras. What makes you think I have?”

  “You have them,” Scoby said roughly. “I’ll tell you something, Mannering. It might help you to grasp the hard facts. I haven’t any future in this country. I’ve got to vanish. It’s all laid on. I’ve been building up another identity in another place, and everything’s fixed - except the money. I need the money, and I’ve a market for the Fioras, cash down. You’re in this deal for what you can get out of it, and I’m not a cheap swindler and I’m not a chiseller. I’ve offered you ten thousand quid, and it’s money for old rope. You’d better accept.”

  He gave that time to sink in, too.

  Simon Lessing said: “If I ever get at you, Mannering . . .”

  “Shut up,” Scoby said viciously. “Or I’ll shut you up. There’s just one thing more I want out of you, and when I’ve got that - les rideaux!” It was an odd quirk to drop in the words of French, and his eyes actually smiled. “Listen to the rest, Mannering. I’ll pay you a thousand pounds down, to show earnest. If you welsh, I’d smash your head in the way I had Lisle’s smashed. The other nine thousand will be handed over in exchange for the Fioras. You can have Lessing’s sister at the same time, but you can’t have Lessing. He’s fixed for les rideaux! Only get it clear in your head, it’s got to be a quick deal. If you don’t come across - okay, Bristow will have the receipt for the Fioras, he’ll find the hot stuff at Quinns, and sooner or later he’ll find your body. In this job I win or I lose, and there’s no halfway stop.”