by John Creasey
‘Bluff isn’t much of an argument,’ Mannering said. ‘You’ve fleeced Fauntley just as you fleeced Alice Purnall, and I don’t like either job.’
The stockbroker jumped from his chair with a movement as quick as the one which had surprised Mannering on the previous night. His fist was clenched under Mannering’s nose. His body was quivering and his flaccid face was pink with rage.
‘Get out, do you hear? Get out before I pulverise you! Fauntley’s finished, and I’ll start on you! I . . .’
‘Gus,’ said Mannering reprovingly, and he sent his clenched fist right into Teevens’s stomach. The blow was unexpected and Teevens’s resistance to it was negligible. The stockbroker gasped and doubled up, and Mannering stood up, gripping the other’s right wrist.
Teevens stopped gasping and tried to free his right arm. Mannering increased the pressure, and Teevens suddenly winced with pain. A stab of fire seemed to go from his wrist to his elbow, and the sweat stood out in beads on his forehead.
‘Mannering—Mannering!’ He was gasping, for he rarely suffered pain. ‘Let go. Let go, I tell you!’
‘Sit down,’ murmured Mannering.
He tightened his grip and forced Teevens backwards to his chair. The stockbroker dropped into it, breathing very hard. Mannering saw a slightly discoloured bruise on his chin, from the blow of the previous night.
‘That’s better,’ Mannering said, sitting on the edge of the desk. ‘Now, Teevens. You’ve robbed Fauntley—’
‘I have done no such thing. He lost his money legally.’
‘There’s such a thing as legal robbery, and you and Lobjoit should know all about it,’ murmured the Baron.
‘Lob—Lobjoit,’ Teevens gasped. ‘He’s merely my solicitor.’
‘And comrade-in-arms,’ said the Baron. ‘Well, what’s it to be? Fauntley has lost pretty heavily, but he’ll write it off as a bad debt if you call his account square and return the deeds of the Portland Place and Devon houses.’
He believed Teevens would make a fight, but he was prepared to try this deal. Teevens was recovering from the pain, and apparently beginning to realise just how dangerous Mannering was.
‘Don’t be a fool,’ he muttered. ‘Fauntley must owe me a hundred thousand. I’ve kept him floating when another man would have let him sink.’
‘You’re quite the philanthropist, of course,’ murmured Mannering. ‘It’s a pity you’re not more appreciated. Is it a deal?’
‘I will get every penny Fauntley owes me, or I will make him bankrupt.’
‘You made a mistake when you robbed Alice Purnall,’ said Mannering. ‘Don’t make another. Here is Fauntley’s cheque for the mortgage interest. Don’t take any chances with the law, because I’ll be watching and waiting for you to go wrong.’
Mannering waved to Teevens, and moved to the door. He seemed to disappear before Teevens realised he had gone, and for sixty seconds Teevens stared at the closed door, his face at first blank, then twisted with a rage which would have made Mannering wonder whether the fight was going to be easy.
‘I’ll smash them both,’ snapped Gus Teevens to himself. He snatched up the telephone which connected him by private wire to Matthew Lobjoit.
From Lobjoit’s in Bishopsgate to Teevens’s office in Lombard Street was a ten-minute walk, but Matthew Lobjoit came by taxi. He was ushered into Teevens’s office and Teevens stared up at him for a moment without speaking.
Lobjoit was an inch shorter than Teevens, an abnormally thin man, which made him seem tall. His dry, colourless skin looked even drier when he was side by side with Teevens; his bony hands and lantern-jaws seemed deathlike. Teevens’s hair was mousy, Lobjoit’s very dark; Lobjoit’s eyes too were dark almost to blackness and he wore black, unrelieved apart from the white of his shirt-front and cuffs. They were an oddly assorted couple with one mutual trait, a love of easy money.
‘What’s the matter, Gus?’
‘Fauntley is kicking,’ said Gus Teevens, and plunged into an account of his interview with Mannering. Lobjoit, a man who smiled so rarely that it was an unusual phenomenon to see his teeth, listened patiently.
‘I’ve heard of Mannering, of course,’ he said at last. ‘Is he dangerous?’ Lobjoit seemed sceptical.
‘I didn’t think so until he came in,’ answered Teevens. ‘I don’t like his methods. He seems very confident, and the fact that he knows of the Purnall business suggests that he’s no fool.’
‘Can Fauntley wriggle out?’ asked Lobjoit, without expression in his eyes or in his voice.
‘Of course he can’t. He must owe me two hundred thousand pounds, and he’s spent the money we advanced him on the mortgages. Fauntley’s in a corner, Matt. I think we’ll start squeezing right away.’
‘Is it wise?’ Now Lobjoit sounded dubious.
‘It will make Fauntley squeal, and he will appeal to Mannering to keep away from us. We can relax a little then,’ added Teevens. ‘If we’re after Fauntley’s collection we don’t want him to sell it, or leave it to the Official Receiver, do we? Certainly,’ added Teevens, with an ugly scowl, ‘not to the Official Receiver.’
Matthew Lobjoit almost smiled.
‘No. How much did you say his collection should be worth?’
‘Half a million. Fauntley might pay off all his debts if he sold it. We would much rather he went bankrupt after we’ve taken them.’
Lobjoit nodded, and Gus Teevens smiled for the first time since Mannering had left the office. He did not like to admit it, but Mannering had worried him. Now the danger seemed more imaginary than real. Mannering had tried to bluff him, but Fauntley wasn’t strong enough to withstand much pressure, and the threat of bankruptcy would bring him to heel.
‘I think perhaps,’ said Augustus Teevens, leaning back in his chair and pressing the tips of his fingers together, ‘You’d better send Fauntley a letter tonight, Matthew. Simply tell him that I’m going to press for money.’
‘What about his account?’
‘It will take several days to make it up, but don’t worry about that. He will be frightened by your letter-heading. I cannot imagine him wanting to face the Official Receiver, who will seem very near when he gets that letter. You’ll send it as soon as you get back?’
Mr. Matthew Lobjoit, the junior partner in that unorthodox association, nodded sombrely.
On the morning that Gus Teevens received a registered letter asking for the submission of Fauntley’s account with Teevens and Co., of Lombard Street, Lord Fauntley received a letter from Lobjoit, Meers and Lobjoit, of 801a, Bishopsgate. Lobjoit’s letter was even more peremptory than Fauntley’s.
Hugo Fauntley had seen the red light for a long time past; he had seen visions of Carey Street, of the Portland Place house being put under the hammer with its contents, his collection being sold to pay his debts, his ambitions dead. Nearly sixty, he could not see how it would be possible to start life again.
Beneath his arrogant and apparently self-centred manner Fauntley was a kindly man, and more particularly an honest one. It was too late now to wish he had settled more on his wife and daughter. In fact he had settled little and their allowances were paid out of his current banking accounts. He could see no way of salvaging even a modest income from the wreckage, and because of that he had fought desperately, accepting Teevens’s promises and offers of help without realising what he was doing. Now the curt letter from Lobjoit showed the red light. He had been half afraid of allowing Mannering to go to Teevens. Now this had come. He could not keep Teevens quiet; God knew what Mannering had said to the man and . . .
Gregory, Fauntley’s secretary, tapped on the door.
‘What is it?’
‘Mr. Mannering, sir.’
‘Send him in, send him in!’
Fauntley jumped from his chair and was at the door as Mannering entered.
Mannering was a perfect picture of a well-satisfied man, until he saw Fauntley’s grey face and haggard eyes.
‘John! Teevens has sent a letter through Lobjoit. They’ve threatened proceedings if I don’t remit the account immediately.’
‘Has he submitted the account?’
‘No, but it’s been dragging on for a long time. He’s often given me the figures verbally, Mannering. I—I must placate him. I daren’t risk his enmity.’
‘You’re all right for some weeks,’ said Mannering cheerfully. ‘The law, besides being an ass, is slower than a tortoise. You’re not going to give way at once?’
Fauntley stood by his desk, harassed and undecided.
‘But with Teevens well-disposed, it won’t be so bad. I know it seems ungrateful, but . . .’
‘Go and slap Teevens’s back if you want to,’ said Mannering. ‘It will postpone the issue for a few weeks, two months at the outside. The man is a rogue, and you’re going to knuckle under to it.’
‘I’ve never knuckled under to anyone in my life!’
‘You’re starting to now.’
The fighting spirit of the little man, which had brought him from obscurity to wealth and a peerage, suddenly became rampant.
‘Damn it, John, I will fight! This has worried the guts out of me, but you’re right! I won’t give way.’
‘That’s fine,’ said Mannering. ‘Stick it out and don’t worry. I’ve enough money to tide you over for a few months, so carry on as you always have. Let the bankers see that you’re confident, and they’ll keep off. Show them you’re worried and they’ll start pressing you. It’s an elementary rule, isn’t it?’
‘My dear John, of course! I’ve been so worried I hardly know whether I’m on my head or my heels. I’d even thought of cancelling the reception at Portland Place next week.’
‘What reception’s that?’ asked Mannering.
For the first time for weeks past Fauntley revealed a glimpse of his over-important self.
‘My dear John, surely you’d heard of it! I am to show my collection. There are a lot of celebrities in London just now. I’ve arranged to borrow the Irawa Ruby. Just for the night, just for the night. It’s never been shown with a private collection before.’
‘Is it too late to send out the invitations?’
‘No, no – of course not.’
‘Send them out,’ advised Mannering with a chuckle. ‘How did you manage to get the Irawa Ruby?’ he added thoughtfully.
He knew that the famous stone, a pigeon’s blood ruby of tremendous size, had been presented in the previous year to the English Museum. The gift had caused a sensation.
‘Well, John’—Fauntley rubbed his hands and looked even pleased with life—’I’m chairman of the Museum’s Jewel Committee, of course. There isn’t much you can tell me about gems. Very little indeed. And to show the Irawa Ruby with my own collection – it will be a sensation!’
‘Let’s have all the sensations you can manage,’ approved Mannering. ‘When’s the show?’
‘Unofficially, I’ve said next Thursday.’
‘Eight days from now, eh? We should know a lot about Teevens’s tactics by then,’ said Mannering. It was a fact that his laughter gave Fauntley confidence, conversely to the worry it had given Gus Teevens.
Teevens would be even more worried, Mannering felt sure, when he heard Fauntley was acting as though nothing was wrong. Mannering believed as few people could do in the value of appearances. There had been a time when only a few hundreds had stood between himself and bankruptcy, but the world had called him rich, and his reputation for riches had been stupendous. The world thought Fauntley rich.
Teevens knew better, but Teevens did not know Mannering’s resources, and still less did he know that he was fighting the Baron.
Chapter Seven
THE FIRST STEP
John Mannering had told himself that the opening of the fight with Teevens was auspicious. He watched Fauntley very carefully without letting the peer notice it. Fauntley seemed almost jaunty, and Mannering realised why with surprise. Fauntley was a fighter first and last, and with help he would fight to the bitter end.
Two days passed, while Mannering made enquiries of various natures. Meanwhile no further correspondence came from Lobjoit to Fauntley. The newspapers were full of the story of the coming reception at Portland Place, and the Irawa Ruby; photographs of Fauntley, the English Museum setting of the stone, Fauntley’s own collection and the Rajah of Irawa littered the pages of the more exclusive weeklies.
The effect was about what Mannering had anticipated.
Fauntley was more cheerful. Those banks which had viewed the credit extended to him with anxiety marked them back for future reference. And Gus Teevens . . .
Gus Teevens was now a very worried man. He could conceive only one reason for Fauntley’s show of confidence, and it was the obvious one that Mannering was backing the peer financially. Teevens was by no means sure that his own activities would stand a searching investigation by the police. He had, in fact, made preparations for a hurried departure if at any time Lobjoit slipped up on the legal side of their activities. But he had been convinced that he had Fauntley where he wanted him, and the new situation was something that made him rage.
In those two days Teevens was at a high pitch of ill-temper. Mannering learned of it by devious channels, and was thoroughly appreciative.
On the third morning the stockbroker’s account reached Fauntley, who received it while Mannering was in the oSice. The peer’s face dropped ludicrously as he went through the figures.
‘Two—two hundred and thirty-five thousand! John, it’s impossible! He—he says here he held on to Kafflirs until they reached three-and-fourpence – it was madness, madness!’
‘Did you ever tell him to hang on to Kafflirs?’
‘Yes, yes, but . . .’
‘You can’t afford any buts with Gus Teevens,’ said Mannering. ‘But stop worrying. We’ll start reprisals very soon, and he’ll begin to get worried!’
‘Reprisals?’
‘That’s the word,’ said Mannering, ‘Teevens is going to have some nasty shocks when they start. Will you remember one thing?’
‘I’ll remember anything,’ said Hugo Fauntley, twisting a forelock of thin hair. ‘What is it?’
‘Don’t admit anything Teevens asks you to. Don’t take any notice of anything Teevens accuses you of. Tell him he’ll get his money. In fact,’ went on Mannering, with a laugh that made Fauntley feel that the account was not so vitally important after all, ‘you’d better give instructions that you won’t see Teevens at your house or at your office. Threaten to have him thrown out if he tries to force his way in.’
‘Thrown—thrown out?’
‘Hugo,’ said Mannering, gripping Fauntley’s shoulders, ‘I said thrown out, and you can tell him it will be on his neck. You’re keeping Lorna and Lady Fauntley in Scotland, aren’t you?’
‘Yes, until this is over.’
‘When Thursday’s show is over, go and join them. Don’t let anything stop you. I shall probably be away for a few days.’
Fauntley drew a deep breath, looked as though he was going to protest, and then gave way.
‘You certainly know your own mind! But what reprisals are you talking about? What the devil are you up to?’
‘I’m going to get some acquaintances of mine to work,’ said Mannering.
He shook hands with Fauntley and left the office.
The Fauntley Trust Company – formed to handle Fauntley’s own affairs at a time when he had been more than successful, and to maintain those companies which he controlled and which were now in such a bad way – was in Queen Victoria Street.
Mannering was happier now than he had been for months. He had a job to do for the Baron, a difficult
job and one for a cause. He cared nothing for Bristow or Teevens; he thought of Lorna and smiled, of Philippa Grey and laughed. He had reached a decision days before, and was going to act on it that night. The first ‘reprisal’ would be to get the deeds of Fauntley’s houses from Lobjoit’s Bishops- gate office; for the first time the Baron was going to operate in the City of London.
At intervals, the twelve notes of a dozen church clocks boomed over the silent City, sonorous and dignified. A policeman plodded past the Old Lady, and met a colleague by the Royal Exchange, stopping for a moment to talk. One or two road-sweepers were busy with their carts; here and there a late worker hurried towards the Bank station for the last train. A bus growled through the deserted streets, not impeded by slow-moving traffic.
London City was asleep.
The policemen parted, one to continue towards City Road, the other along Bishopsgate. The latter touched his helmet to a minor official of the Bank of England, just as the taxi which carried Mannering passed them.
Mannering was leaning back in his cab and smiling in the way that always preceded a nocturnal adventure. The Bank looked the most impregnable fortress conceivable – which it was – but he pondered over the possibility of taking advantage of the work still being done on the rebuilding and getting inside. It might be possible, but getting out would be a different matter, and the Baron was glad that Fauntley’s deeds were not there.
He had been busy in the past three days.
A certain Flick Leverson, only recently out of gaol for buying and selling stolen goods, had greeted him with undisguised pleasure. Flick, a patriarchal-looking man with a reputation for being clever and straight, literally had his finger on the pulse of the so-called underworld.
To Flick Leverson the Baron was ostensibly a middle-aged gentleman with a remarkable propensity for opening safes. To look middle-aged the Baron wore a specially constructed suit, which gave him a slight stoop, rubber cheek-pads to fatten his cheeks, and a streak or two of grey in his hair. None of the things were important in themselves, but together they made a disguise which was well-nigh impenetrable. He had also trained himself to use a dozen different tones when speaking. The portly, middle-aged man who knew Flick Leverson and certain other members of the criminal fraternity looked and sounded nothing like John Mannering.