The Baron Goes East

by John Creasey

  “In emergency, yes.”

  “The difficulty will be to look today as you were yesterday. If it can be avoided, do not change the final disguise. Now—please sit here.”

  There was a swivel chair, a barber’s mirror and a big barber’s smock. Mannering sat down. Chopra went to a large suitcase and took out his equipment. Grease-paint, a beard, a wig, a dozen different things. Joseph stood silently by the door.

  Mannering submitted to the gentle hands and firm movements of the youthful-looking Hindu, and watched himself change in front of his eyes.

  Nearly an hour later Mannering stood in front of a long mirror and studied the reflection of the Sikh; he did not recognise himself. The greasepaint had altered his complexion to the tawny brown of the hardy men of the hills; the shape of his eyes and cheeks was different. He had a small dark beard which curled a little, hair that seemed to grow low on the nape of his neck. The turban concealed his own hair; the clothes gave his body a different shape. He wore a long khaki tunic, knee breeches and puttees, with pointed, turned-up toes. The puttees were hot but there was no way of avoiding them. He studied himself closely, then turned to his own make-up case.

  He took out everything he needed to clean off the disguise, and worked while the men watched, without comment; Chopra obviously disapproved.

  In twenty minutes the transformation was gone, except for the clothes.

  Chopra didn’t speak.

  Mannering hitched the chair closer to the mirror and set to work – deft touches with greasepaint, everything he needed. Gradually, very gradually, he turned into the Sikh. He took longer than Chopra, but as he worked he saw the Hindu watching with an astonishment he couldn’t hide. All disapproval faded.

  He finished.

  Chopra said softly: ‘That is remarkable, Mr. Mannering. I would not have thought it possible. If only you knew the language!”

  “I’ll manage,” Mannering said. “Joseph and Amu will talk for me. Joseph, I want you to take that case back to the hotel. Tell the memsahib I shall be late, but she is not to worry. Tell her I am just trying out my new clothes.”

  “Yes, sahib. Can I tell you where it is best to go?”

  “I know where to go,” said Mannering.

  He didn’t add that he was going to the home of the late Imannati Patel.

  CHAPTER NINETEEN

  FORCED ENTRY

  Mannering reached the end of Woodham Road at dusk. He had walked from Chopra’s house, and his ankle wasn’t as sound as he had expected it to be. No one had given him a second glance, not even the Sikhs he had passed on the way. He went briskly past No. 81. Dim lights shone at two downstairs windows, none upstairs.

  He turned back and went into the drive of the house next door. Halfway along, a gap in the hedge was large enough to squeeze through. He stepped on to the drive of Patel’s house, looking at the lighted windows, then up at the starlit sky. He moved quietly towards the back of the house, but saw no light.

  He had a roll of tools and the gun. He pulled on a pair of cotton gloves, then tried the handle of the back door; it was locked. The windows were both locked and shuttered. Standing close to the door, he listened intently, but heard nothing. He took out a pick-lock and slipped it into the keyhole.

  He heard metal scraping on metal. In less than thirty seconds the lock clicked back smoothly.

  He opened the door, and there was no light.

  He stepped inside.

  As the door closed behind him and he stood in the darkness, years seemed to slip away. He wasn’t in India; he was disguised, but not as a burly Sikh. He was the Baron, cracksman extraordinary, standing on the threshold of a house where the owner slept, and where jewels worth a fortune waited for the taking. He was the man Bristow had hunted throughout England, and whom the French police had sought in Paris and in Lyons.

  He took a slim pencil torch from the pocket of his tunic and shone it round.

  The smell of spices had already told him he was in the kitchen – a small room. Another door was opposite, and as the torchlight shone through it he saw that it led to the passage which ran alongside the stairs. He stepped out and saw a faint light beneath a door on the right. He went forward soundlessly.

  He reached the foot of the stairs.

  The other light he had seen from the garden came from a room on the left of the stairs. There were rooms on either side, and he hesitated before stepping towards the front door. He opened then closed it again. The catch was easy to slip, and in emergency he could get out that way.

  He went back to the stairs and opened the door on the right stealthily. He peered in. Two men sat on upright chairs, facing each other; neither was talking, and he thought that one was asleep. Both were dressed in European clothes. He crept out and opened the other door.

  Several sari-clad women sat on cushions on the floor, all of them looking towards the carpet. They were beautifully dressed. The silence of meditation made a hush about the room. Mannering closed the door gently and went up to the room where he had seen Patel.

  The only light here was from his torch.

  He shone it towards the floor, remembering the way a man had squatted in the corner, remembering how servants rolled themselves up in their blankets and slept on the boards. Were eyes straining at him in the darkness? He found his way to Patel’s room, wondered if the police had been here yet; he saw no traces of a search.

  He studied photographs on the dressing-table and other pieces of furniture, then went to the room where the servant in the corner had startled him.

  The man wasn’t there.

  Mannering shone the torch round slowly, carefully, keeping the beam below the level of the window, and drew the curtains. He smelt a delicate perfume he had noticed before. He closed the door and switched on the light. The room was shabby. The striped wallpaper with the flowered design reminded him of some of the faded salons of Paris. So did the Louis Quinze furniture; part of the house was furnished as Indians would furnish it, but most was Westernised. There was a large double bed.

  A cord hung from one of the posts, the kind of cord which had been used to bind him in the cave. It had been cut, and the cut was clean. At the other side of the bed there was nothing, but more cord lay on the floor beneath the post. It was in two half-circles, showing where it had been cut from the wrists of someone who had been tied to the post.

  Had Shani and the Maharajah’s son been tied up here?

  The perfume reminded him of Shani. He turned to the door. A piece of blue material, silk which might have come from a sari, had caught in the barrel of the lock. Shani had worn blue that day. He ran the piece of silk between his gloved fingers, then put it in his pocket.

  He searched every drawer in Patel’s room and found many papers, most of them written in English, a few in Hindu or a language with Indian characters. The Indian writing showed how heavily the dice were loaded against him. He studied the photographs again, then turned towards the door of the room which had been empty.

  The light shone on emptiness, at first – then on to a chair – then on to a man sitting in the chair.

  Mannering kept the light steady on the man’s legs. He was dressed in European clothes. He wasn’t moving. Mannering listened with bated breath, but could not hear the sound of another’s breathing. He raised the light, slowly. It fell on a grey suit. It fell on a young face, an olive-coloured chin and on to dark eyes, which were wide open, staring; the light hardly made the other man blink.

  Jagat? He was sure it was.

  Jagat was bound hand and foot to the chair, and a cloth was tied round his mouth, gagging him.

  Words sprang to Mannering’s lips but he kept them back. He was a Sikh who hadn’t the power of speech, and had to remember that. The youth could only see his shape. The light was shining into his face, half blinding him.

  Mannering di
dn’t put on the room light.

  He put the torch on a pouf so that it shone on a level with Jagat’s waist, and took out a sheathed knife, part of his props. He cut the cords at the youngster’s ankles and wrists, then removed the gag. Jagat slumped in his chair, but couldn’t get up at once. Mannering began to massage his wrists, then his ankles. Jagat kept hissing, as if against pain.

  That was the only sound. None came from outside or downstairs.

  Mannering worked swiftly, desperately; they might be interrupted at any minute. He couldn’t guess how long it would be before Jagat could move freely. After a long ten minutes, Jagat grunted as he tried to get up, held the chair tightly and managed to get to his feet.

  Mannering wanted to tell him what to do, but didn’t know a word of Hindi, daren’t speak in English, because the day would come when Jagat might recognise him. Jagat began to move, and they walked round the room several times, until Jagat could stand without help.

  Jagat spoke in whispers, in a language Mannering didn’t understand. He didn’t answer. Jagat whispered again, more insistently. Mannering shook his head, but the faint light probably hid that from the youngster. He made a queer sound in his throat, as a dumb man might do. Jagat stopped whispering, and walked about again, then went towards the door.

  Mannering switched off the torch.

  Jagat might try to avenge himself; might cause trouble; or might have the sense to sneak out. Mannering wasn’t sure, but knew what he wanted. Jagat made little sound as he crept out of the room and across Patel’s bedroom towards the stairs. Mannering now shone the torch behind him so that he could see.

  Jagat reached the stairs, turned and looked at the light, and beckoned. Mannering stood still. Jagat went down, making hardly a sound. Mannering gave him time to reach the front door, then followed to the head of the stairs.

  He saw a light from outside; Jagat was opening the door, going out furtively.

  The door closed.

  Mannering put out the torch again. He had no papers, nothing else that would help. If he were wise, he would go now, but – he hadn’t found the safe.

  Would it be downstairs?

  He returned to Patel’s room, locked each door, put out the light and went to the window. Outside there was a ledge almost immediately beneath him, then a long drop to the ground. The only near tree was a phoenix palm; he knew the sharp, sword-like fronds too well to take chances with those trees. But if he reached the ledge and hung from it, he could drop to the ground with reasonable safety.

  He closed the window, went to the main door and switched on the light.

  In this very room of death he stood and studied the walls, the furniture placed against them in studied disorder. One big chest was in a different place from when he had first seen it; so was a large dressing-table, a mahogany piece, incongruous here. He went across and moved the chest, then the dressing-table.

  It was as simple as that.

  The safe was built into the wall.

  The Baron knelt in front of the safe, his tools spread out by his side, drilling. The noise of the drill was soft but persistent. Every minute or so he paused to listen, and heard no other sound. Tiny iron filings curled out from the holes he was making round the lock. It was an old-fashioned safe; easy to open unless there were some refinements which Patel had fitted specially.

  He had been working for twenty minutes before he was able to lift out the lock.

  There was no trick fastening; he opened the door of the safe without trouble. Inside were two shelves, each of them filled, mostly with documents. There were several jewel-cases, and there was also a packet wrapped in brown paper. He took the packet out first, broke it open and found white powder; this was probably cocaine. He put it aside and opened a jewel-case. The diamond necklace inside was a beautiful thing, worth a small fortune, but not unique and of no special interest to the Baron.

  He opened another.

  Blue diamonds winked up at him.

  CHAPTER TWENTY

  MORE DIAMONDS

  There were twelve diamonds in this case, each fitted into a groove in the velvet cushion. Mannering laid it aside, and opened another, larger case; there were thirty gems, looking exactly the same. A third case held nine.

  Mannering carried the smallest case close to the light, took out one gem and studied it closely. Then he went back to the safe and took out the white diamond necklace. One stone was cut with sharper edges than most. He used this edge to scrape the side of a blue diamond; he hardly touched it, just pressed and twisted, then examined the blue gem again.

  He could see where the real diamond had marked it; this was paste.

  He tested the rest of the nine blue gems; they were all the same. He wanted time to make sure of every one, but was getting restless. If Jagat had taken the normal course, the police would soon be on the way. There were two risks of being interrupted.

  Mannering opened the window again; everything was normal outside.

  He tested blue gem after blue gem, and all were easily scratched by the real diamond. Fifty-one paste stones were here, each looking identical with the genuine blue diamond which Phiroshah had sent him.

  He put them all back in their cases, tucked them under his arm, and went to the window. Everything was as he had seen it before. He put the tools back in the canvas roll, and slipped this round his waist; it didn’t impede him or make a bulge. Then he lifted a corner of the dressing-table and let it drop heavily.

  The boards of the room shook.

  He paused; a door downstairs opened and men spoke, footsteps sounded on the stairs, then running footsteps. He made for the window and climbed out, dropping one of the jewel-cases inside the room. Someone had reached the door and thudded on it, someone else called out in Hindi. Mannering climbed to the ledge and dropped another case, into the room. He heard it open, heard the paste gems rolling about.

  The door groaned as someone thudded against it.

  He bent down so that his hands and feet rested on the ledge then put one leg over and got to his knees. He heard the door burst open and men rush into the room. He eased his knees off the ledge, and hung full length; the third jewel-case fell into the garden. He saw the face of a man appear at the window.

  Mannering dropped.

  As he dropped, he heard something hit against the ground and saw a flash of silver light. A knife tore at his tunic. He bent his knees to take the strain, dropped more heavily on his left foot that his right, yet the right hurt him. He turned left and ran. Another silver flash passed him, and a knife stuck into the wooden gate-post.

  There was neither shooting nor shouting.

  He ran towards the nearest corner, turned and began to slow down. He was walking quickly when a gharry came along.

  “Taj Mahal,” Mannering said in a way which he hoped sounded like the Hindi pronunciation, and climbed into the gharry. He couldn’t see out, there was no window in the hood. He didn’t try to look out at the sides. The driver gently whipped his horse to a brisker walk. Nothing else happened. Cars passed, people walked swiftly and silently by. When they turned a corner, Mannering looked round.

  There was no sign of pursuit.

  Mannering climbed out of the gharry, paid the man double his fare without arguing, without saying a word. The hotel was so big that there was a good chance that he wouldn’t be noticed. He reached his own floor by the stairs. Joseph was standing with his infinite patience outside the main door. Joseph saw him and stiffened.

  “All well,” Mannering said. “Open the door.”

  “Yes—yes, sahib.” Joseph had seen him when he left, but was startled.

  “No one has come in, do you understand?”

  “Yes, sahib.”

  Mannering slipped through into the empty outer room.

  Joseph closed the door, and Mannering stopped in the midd
le of the room, breathing heavily, wiping his forehead. He had never felt so hot. He started to move towards the door of the drawing-room, when it opened.

  Lorna came out, glanced up and stopped abruptly. She didn’t speak, but went pale. Then she backed a pace, and said sharply: “Who are you?”

  “Spare a copper, lidy,” said Mannering.

  She exclaimed: “John!” She backed another pace, but the quick surge of fear had gone. “You—brute!”

  “Like me?”

  “It’s perfect. You look dreadful.”

  “Well, you married me.”

  “Not in that outfit. I—” She stopped, drew nearer, peered at him closely, and realised at once that he hadn’t come simply to show himself off. “What’s—what’s happened?”

  “Nothing that won’t help. Heard anything from Phiroshah’s house?”

  “They’re not back,” said Lorna.

  Mannering did not speak.

  “Amu telephoned,” Lorna continued. “Phiroshah knows. He wants to see you.”

  “I’ll go as soon as I can,” said Mannering. “I must get this stuff off. Joseph has seen me, so there’s no need to worry about him.” He led the way to the bedroom. “Think you could rustle up a cup of coffee?”

  “I’ve some orange juice,” said Lorna.

  She telephoned for coffee as he stripped down to singlet and trunks. The fans gave some coolness. He sat at the dressing-table with the make-up beside him, started to work, and sighed: “Oh, for a real drink!”

  “We can get permits, but it’s hardly worth it,” said Lorna. “Bombay’s the only dry province; you can get anything you want outside.”

  “Life can begin again in Ganpore.” Mannering was cleaning his face. The beard and the false hair were on the dressing-table with the turban. There was a tap at the door, and Lorna hurried to take the tray. Mannering was nearly finished when she came in, with the coffee poured. He sat back against the dressing-table and took a sip. He looked up, startled.