A Rope For the Baron

by John Creasey

  Steady, now; he was on a job.

  Not a bad piece of reconstruction, this fireplace. There was some rough plaster-work, a series of rather primitive figures.

  Interesting although faked. It might have been done twenty years ago, or a couple of hundred. He examined it more closely. It was old work, and.

  ‘By Jericho!’

  There was a door in the wall, he could see the outline of it, concealed by the decorative plaster. A door which probably led into the Great Hall. It might be part of the original Norman wall. He wanted an excuse for going to the Great Hall again, and this might be it. Were there any secret passages or hidden cupboards? Over the centuries, concealed cavities had been popular; priests’ holes had been two a penny in Cornshire.

  He was running his fingers over the plaster when he felt something give. He pressed harder; yes, there was a knob here; this was a secret panel.

  Nothing happened.

  He put his mind to the task. This ‘button’ hadn’t been installed for no purpose. It was too much to expect a sliding door, but – if he pressed the ‘button’ in the right way, a door might open.

  He pushed and pulled. The door did open!

  Dando became so excited that he pulled harder than he intended, and the door flew wide, hitting his knee sharply. But in spite of that, he stood absolutely still, lips parted, eyes rounded in growing stupefaction.

  The body of a man slowly toppled out of the doorway and fell at his feet.

  The barrel-shaped corpse, knees bent and arms twisted oddly, was stiff with rigor mortis. But it was not long since this man had died.

  He was dressed in a black coat and striped trousers, and wore no collar and tie. His eyes were half-open, his lips were parted. He had been strangled; the scarf was twisted round his neck.

  ‘It—it’s the butler,’ Dando muttered. ‘I’ve found the butler.’

  Dan Chittering of the Daily Gazette was a meek-looking little man with a lock of fair hair dangling into his eyes, a slight stammer, a timid manner. He was in Bristol on a drab murder case when he heard that Mannering was missing, and that Corwellin had been mentioned as the trouble centre. Chittering, who looked too young and incapable to drive a powerful car, sent it hurtling along the West Country roads, became a menace to man and beast until, entering Corwellin, he slowed down, edged the car into a narrow parking space between two others, and went as if diffidently to the police station. There was some excitement at that unattractive stone building, so much so that he thought that knowledgeable people in the town might be able to tell him what the fuss was about. He sought out the local newspaper office, a stuffy, smelly place. He learned that a body had been found at Hallen House. He telephoned London before wandering back to the police station, and was there when the ambulance arrived with the body.

  He went to the morgue at the back of the station. There was a great deal of coming and going, and several other newspaper men were hanging about. Chittering, however, was the first to discover where the morgue-keeper lived.

  He was waiting near the man’s house later that evening, and discovered a mutual liking for beer.

  Nor did the morgue-keeper object to mixing his drinks.

  The Daily Gazette came out next morning with a story sensational in every detail, with Mannering’s name splashed across four columns.

  Mannering put his foot to the ground, and gingerly tested his knee. It was not so painful as it had been on the previous day, and the swelling had gone down. He limped across the floor of the small bedroom, a dingy, gloomy place, although in the garden at the back a dense mass of trees was already beginning to change colour.

  How long would Lark want to keep him here, in this little country-town pub?

  There had been no question of escape the previous day; he could not have gone a hundred yards. If he were wise, he wouldn’t try his leg too much today, either; by tomorrow, it should be able to stand up to most strains.

  Probably it would have to.

  Lark and Jackie seemed confident that he wouldn’t try to get away. In their way, they were blackmailing him. No, that wasn’t fair to Jackie. The uncouth Cockney did exactly what Lark told him; he was completely under Lark’s domination. A queer relationship, but not important just now, he need only take Lark into account. And Lark, believing he had discovered Mannering to be a cracksman, thought he had a strong hand.

  Mannering had encouraged the belief.

  Without acknowledging or admitting ‘the truth’ he shied away from the subject. Lark never visited the room without referring to it, sometimes directly, sometimes obliquely. The little crook was outwardly friendly, but told him nothing of what he had learned, passed on no news of Hallen House or Bellamy. That was part of a deliberate policy, tightening Lark’s grip on the whip.

  The burglar and Jackie shared the next room.

  A dray pulled up almost immediately outside Mannering’s window, and two dark-haired, sallow-skinned Cornshiremen began to unload the beer. There were inexhaustible supplies of beer. Six bottles, one empty, five full, were standing along the wall near the door. Jackie had brought them up, dumped them, said ‘From the Boss,’ and gone out again.

  Standing behind a dirty net curtain, Mannering watched the men at work. Was this town Corwellin? There was no lettering on the dray, nothing to indicate its owner or where it came from. This window overlooked small, grey stone houses, many of them in long terraces, rather reminiscent of a mining village. In the distance were two slag heaps, and what looked like a derelict shaft-head; and Corwellin was a tin-mining district. By craning his neck, he could just see the twin spires of a church or minster; but he did not know what the mother church of Corwellin was like, so that didn’t help him.

  He knew that he was about fifteen miles from the house on the moor, because the journey from Lark’s place had taken half an hour. In the darkness of early morning, he had been hustled into this place after a hurried, whispered consultation in the doorway. He knew that Lark and Jackie were among friends; beyond that, he could be sure of nothing.

  His meals had been sent up to him. That morning he had breakfasted in bed, on eggs and bacon, toast and marmalade, as generous in quantity as that at Hallen House. The breakfast tray was on a bamboo table by the side of the bed.

  It was now nearly ten o’clock, and he had just finished dressing.

  The room was poorly furnished – a huge, brass-railed feather bed, a marble-topped washstand with a cracked jug and bowl, and a narrow, old-fashioned wardrobe. These were the only large pieces. Two cane-seated chairs, a dilapidated fireside chair which sagged on one side whenever he sat in it, and the table, made up the rest. A huge black-and-white print. The Last Supper, hung over the bed, and two or three religious texts on the other walls. By the empty fireplace hung a yellowed pre-war calendar, without a single sheet torn off it, and a small mirror was fastened to the wall. The linoleum was old and cracked; a strip of threadbare carpet was beside the bed.

  Everything was clean; Jackie himself had ‘done’ the room the previous day; he hadn’t been talkative.

  The unloading finished, the dray moved off.

  Mannering turned away from the window.

  The stairs creaked as someone came up – he had learned to recognise that sound quickly. Jackie? No – these footsteps were lighter and quicker; Lark was coming to see him.

  He took out his cigarette-case and lit one of three remaining cigarettes. He heard the key turn in the lock – a mere formality, for he could open it whenever he wanted – and Lark slipped into the room.

  A cloth cap pushed his ears out further than nature had intended, and she had pushed them far enough. His bony nose was red, and his eyes were wary. Ugly and painfully thin, there was an air of repressed energy about him.

  He had several newspapers under his arm.

  There was no love in the way he looked at Mannering.

  ‘Siddown.’

  Mannering sat on the bed.

  ‘So you didn’t bust that jewel-room.’ H
e was angry; Mannering felt his own pulse racing.

  ‘No, I didn’t.’

  ‘You didn’t, eh? And you reckon that I’ll get mixed up in a murder rap if I have anything to do with Bellamy?’

  ‘You will.’

  Lark drew in his breath and thrust his head forward menacing and dangerous – yes, dangerous; all friendliness was gone. He had his right hand in his pocket, poking something against the cloth; undoubtedly a gun. There was now an expression of intense dislike on his face; dislike, contempt, hatred, anger.

  He growled: ‘I’d like to cut your ruddy throat.’

  Mannering did not answer.

  ‘You talked to me about the eight o’clock walk. To me!’ Lark paused, let the newspapers slip, picked one up and folded it across and across; he could do most things with one hand. He folded it into a tight roll, stepped forward and slapped Mannering across the face. Mannering thrust out a hand and wrested the paper away. His face stung, but that wasn’t important. What had come over Lark?

  ‘Don’t you try no tricks on me,’ growled Lark. ‘Take a look!’

  He pulled the gun out of his pocket, and backed away a few paces.

  Mannering turned away and went to the window, unfolding the newspaper. It was a Daily Gazette. At the half-fold, he saw a photograph – his own. There was Chittering’s four-column headline: police seek mannering in murder hunt. As he stared down, the black letters seemed to swim in front of his eyes, police seek mannering in murder hunt.

  The light from the window shone straight on the paper. Gradually the wavering lines straightened, and he could see more clearly; he read the caption beneath the photograph.

  ‘John Mannering, jewel expert and connoisseur, famous for investigations into sensational crimes, whom the police want to interview in connection with the Corwellin Moor murder.’

  There was a sub-heading:

  SUPT. DANDO’S GRIM DISCOVERY

  ‘Superintendent Dando, believing the theft of valuable emeralds from Hallen House, until lately the home of Sir Mervaise Galliard, now owned by Mr. Silas Bellamy, to be important, took over investigations personally. Two men were missing from the house, John Mannering, a guest, and Edward Holmes, the butler. Supt. Dando shrewdly suspected that one of these had not left the house. He searched every corner, and eventually found a secret cupboard. Opening the door, Supt. Dando was horrified to see the body of a man topple out. The missing butler had been strangled, and had been dead some hours. A scarf round his neck was tied fiendishly tight. Although the house was subsequently searched by a squad of police and detectives, no trace of John Mannering was discovered.

  ‘Corwellin Police immediately asked for Scotland Yard’s help. Yard officers are expected at Hallen House today. Meanwhile, a general call has been sent out for John Mannering. (Photo, side.) Mannering is famous for his collection of jewels and knowledge of all works of art and antiques. Owner of Quinn’s, a two-hundred-year-old shop in Hart Row, W.I., Mannering has been known to assist the police in the past; now he is being hunted by them himself! One time dilettante, man-about-town, and London’s wealthiest eligible bachelor, he married Lorna, daughter of Lord Fauntley, some years ago. Mrs. Mannering is a well-known painter whose pictures are frequently exhibited at the Royal Academy.

  ‘Gazette reporter called at Quinn’s and at the Mannerings’ Chelsea flat-cum-studio. Mrs. Mannering “had gone away.”

  It is believed that the police are anxious to interview her, also. Superintendent Bristow is the Yard’s representative in these inquiries.’

  Mannering lowered the paper.

  The little thief was still standing with his chin thrust forward and his eyes narrowed; and the gun was pointing straight at Mannering.

  ‘Well?’ Lark grunted.

  Mannering pulled one of the upright chairs towards him and sat down. His voice was very quiet.

  ‘I’m in a spot, Lark, aren’t I?’

  ‘I’ll say you are. Flicking murderer!’

  ‘I told you—’

  ‘You told me plenty, and I didn’t believe you. I don’t believe anything you say. You can go to hell. I’m quitting. You’ll be handed over to the dicks as soon’s I’m clear. Got that? I’ll look arter myself, but—’

  ‘I told you that Bellamy was a murderer—’

  Lark said hoarsely: ‘Now you do some listening, cock. I’ve got ears. An’ I’ve got pals. They’ve been picking up a lot of dope about this job. Your prints are all over the door of that jewel-house, over the cabinet. You busted that lock and took the greeners. Holmes caught you at it and you croaked him. I don’t help flicking murderers, Mannering.’

  ‘You’re falling for what the police think and what someone’s guessed, but it isn’t true. I bought those diamonds from Bellamy and he stole the receipt from me.’

  Disbelief showed clearly in Lark’s reddish-brown eyes; how could he convince the man? If he failed, Lark would carry out his threat; Mannering knew the repulsion that some crooks felt towards crimes of violence.

  Disbelief, hostility, condemnation, all showed in the crook’s eyes.

  ‘You can’t fool me,’ Lark rapped, backing towards the door. ‘Jackie’s outside in the garden. I’ve got a pal on the stairs. Don’t try to get out.’ He went backwards slowly, without moving his gun.

  How could the man be convinced?

  Mannering spoke sharply: ‘Lark!’

  ‘Keep yer trap shut!’

  ‘Lark, you took my wallet. You’ve still got it. There’s a chequebook in it.’

  ‘So what?’

  ‘Have a look at the cheque-book. You’ll see the last stub was for £3,000 drawn in favour of Bellamy, dated the day before yesterday. I made out that cheque just before you came that night. Have a look, that can’t hurt you.’

  Lark hesitated; then his left hand moved to his inside coat pocket. He took out the wallet, opened it, felt inside and extracted the cheque-book. Only three or four of the original dozen cheques were left. He felt for the stubs, reached the last one, rubbed it between his fingers and then, for the first time since he had entered, took his gaze away from Mannering.

  ‘Well?’ Mannering’s voice was dry.

  ‘That don’t prove anything!’

  So it was there.

  ‘Keep that cheque-book safely, Lark, because I’m going to need it if I ever stand trial. Bellamy won’t cash the cheque, but I handed it to him. Harrison was with him. I came to buy the emeralds; he let me have them for several thousand pounds less than their value. I told you before, he wanted me to value all his jewels and didn’t intend me to leave alive. He would have taken the emeralds back. The deal was just to keep me quiet.’

  ‘I ain’t keeping quiet!’

  ‘I can’t make you, but don’t forget the other things I told you about. Don’t forget Stella Bellamy. And Rundle. And the man who fell from the window. Don’t forget any of them.’

  ‘This won’t help you,’ muttered Lark, but there was doubt in his eyes now.

  ‘I’m in a spot, and if I can’t get out of it, Stella and the other girl certainly can’t,’ Mannering said. ‘They were taken away – they’re locked up somewhere. They—’

  A creak on the stairs made him pause. Lark glanced round, as if surprised, and there was a tap at the door. Jackie always thumped as if his fist was a battering ram.

  ‘Whossat?’ snapped Lark.

  ‘Me, Larky,’ said a man nasally. ‘It’s only me.’

  ‘Okay, open up,’ said Lark.

  A tall, thin man with beady eyes and a long, wriggly nose slid inside the room. His short sleeves were rolled up showing thin, sinewy brown arms, and a green beige apron stretched down to his knees.

  In his hand was a letter.

  ‘Bloke come,’ he said, in that nasal Cockney voice. ‘Said he’d got a message—for ‘im.’

  ‘For Mannering!’

  Mannering felt a swift spasm of alarm. Who knew that he was here?’

  ‘S’what he said,’ declared the lanky man.

>   ‘Gimme!’ Lark snatched the letter and tore it open. Mannering stood quite still, taut nerves stretched to their limit. Who knew that he was here?

  Lark read once, twice. Then he handed Mannering the letter and at the same time, lowered his gun.

  Chapter Twelve

  Grease-Paint

  The note was written in pencilled block capitals.

  ‘WHO’S IT TO BE, MANNERING? YOU OR THE GIRLS?’

  There was nothing else on the sheet of poor quality paper. No address, no signature, nothing but the succinct questions. ‘You or the girls?’

  And Lark read the truth into it.

  ‘W’ass come over you?’ whined the lanky man.

  Lark glanced up. ‘It’s okay, Perce, it’s okay. You don’t have to worry. Scram.’

  The other man turned round and shuffled out, closing the door behind him.

  Mannering was thinking: Bellamy knows he’s finished if I talk; thinks that I might put my head in a noose because of the girls; thinks I might keep quiet to save them. But he’s not sure; he’s worried – I’ll say he’s worried!

  No, it wasn’t so simple.

  The evidence was so black against Mannering that anything he said about Bellamy would probably be disbelieved. Bellamy was banking on that, but was uneasy and wanted to keep him on the run. The longer he kept away from the police the blacker things would look. Bellamy knew that.

  And yet …

  The owner of Hallen House had planned everything down to the last detail. The moment Lark had told Mannering of the fingerprints, he had realised that his were on the door and on the case. He had left them on his first day at the house, Bellamy had probably made sure that the door and furniture weren’t polished afterwards. The evidence was damning; Bellamy must know that; yet he had sent this note, which might frighten Mannering but might also serve to strengthen his position when he saw the police.

  The police might even think he had sent the note to himself.

  Did it really help him?

  Why had Bellamy sent it?

  But supposing Bellamy hadn’t?

  ‘Perce!’ he shouted.

  ‘What’s up?’ snapped Lark.