The Baron Returns

by John Creasey

  There was Bedlam let loose. The odds were overwhelmingly heavy.

  Desperation urged him to greater endeavours. If he was caught, violence would make his sentence heavier.

  He was hitting out right and left with his fists. His pistol was in the gutter, the first policeman was blowing like a ship’s siren on his whistle, and the piercing blasts merged with the gasps and oaths of the two men who were smashing at the Baron.

  A truncheon caught his shoulder, and for a moment his left arm was numb. Mannering grunted, and did the only thing possible; he swept the man’s legs from under him. But a dozen people were rushing towards the spot, cars were pulling up in Bishopsgate.

  Cars were pulling up.

  The single fact pierced the Baron’s mind, and an idea came with it. His mask was still on; only one of the original trio of policemen was on his feet, a man who did not fancy the human tornado. The nearest man from the Bishopsgate end of the street was twenty yards away, while from the far end no one was within fifty yards of him.

  Mannering launched himself at the remaining policeman, and sent him staggering. The first man in blue was recovering and went for Mannering’s knees. Mannering jumped three feet in the air, over the man’s outstretched arms. He heard another heavy body hit the ground, and he was off like a deer, racing towards Bishopsgate. Two policemen and the first motorist to stop his car were running towards him, but not bunched together. The nearest policeman closed on him, but he handed the man off.

  The second policeman was young. In the light of the street lamps Mannering could see that he was also burly and grim-faced. He came along like a bullet, and Mannering felt alarm, but did the only thing possible.

  He stopped stock still.

  The young policeman hurtled towards him, with a motorist less than ten yards behind. Mannering waited until the policeman’s hands stretched out and almost touched him, then he bent and made a back. The policeman didn’t have a chance, Mannering tossed him over his head, straightened up, and sent him with a thud to the ground.

  There was only the motorist to fear now, although there were three or four people on the pavement. The motorist seemed ready for anything, a tall, sinewy-looking fellow.

  Footsteps were thudding behind him now, twenty yards separated Mannering from his nearest pursuer, two from the motorist.

  ‘Better drop it,’ said that worthy, and Mannering warmed to him. A laconic, no-heroics type.

  ‘Thanks for the car,’ Mannering said, and gripped the man’s wrist. A single flick, and the pain that shot through the motorist’s arm must have been torture. Ju-jitsu had its points.

  Mannering raced on, his handkerchief mask fluttering, his coat tails streaming behind him, his breath coming in short, sharp gasps. No one was within ten yards of the sports car, the engine was still running, the door was open.

  Mannering did not wait to use the door; he took a flying leap into the car, slid into the driving seat, grabbed at the brake, put the car in gear and let in the clutch. The engine roared to life as Mannering trod hard on the accelerator, fearing for a moment that she would stall. But he was away, jerking at first, but soon running smoothly.

  Men loomed in front of him; he swerved to the right to avoid them, sending others scuttling back. There was shouting and blowing of whistles behind, and a squealing of brakes as other cars pulled up. But the Baron was away!

  His ten yards start grew to a hundred. He glanced behind him to see a taxi starting in pursuit with a man clinging to the running-board, but he had a fifty yards start. There was no traffic coming in the opposite direction, and the needle of the speedometer on the borrowed car touched seventy.

  Liverpool Street station loomed up.

  Mannering saw the clear pavement and the deserted road ahead, and decided to take a chance. The bend in Bishopsgate helped him, for the pursuers were still out of sight. He jammed on the brakes, and while the car was still doing twenty miles an hour, leapt for the pavement.

  He staggered, swayed, found his balance and ran towards the narrow side entrance to the station. Behind him the cab was coming, a policeman’s whistle shrilling through the keen night air. Mannering heard the crash as the car he had borrowed smashed into the grimy wall of the station and saw a dozen startled porters swing round.

  The nearest porter hesitated.

  ‘What was that, sir?’

  ‘The Loughton train – one-ten,’ gasped Mannering, and the porter recognised a man in a hurry.

  ‘Platform eight, sir, you’ll just do it.’ Mannering raced down the steps, reached the platform level, found platform eight and the ticket-collector. The hands of the big station clock pointed to ten minutes past one.

  ‘I must catch it!’ gasped Mannering. He tossed half-a-crown into the ticket-collector’s hands. The man stood aside, and Mannering ran towards the train.

  The ticket-collector took it as all in the day’s work, and wished he could join the crowd hurrying to investigate the smash outside. He did not look at Mannering, who reached the last carriage of the Loughton train, pulled open the door and scrambled in as the train started off.

  The carriage was empty.

  Mannering would have given a great deal to be able to drop into a seat and take a breather. He dare not. He took two steps across to the far door, taking in the situation on the other side of the station at a glance.

  The line was clear, the platform deserted. He wrenched open the door and dropped lightly on the rails. He jumped across the line and hoisted himself on to the platform, looking away from him. Every kiosk was shut, but the cloakrooms were open.

  Mannering walked as sedately as he dared to the cloakroom, hurried down the steps, seeing quickly and with relief that the attendant was missing. He straightened his hair, put on the invaluable opera-hat, stuffed the blue scarf in his pocket, and walked back to the platform.

  A crowd had congregated around the entrance to platform eight. The lean motorist, three puffing policemen, a dozen porters and a couple of dozen men and women waiting for the late trains were all infected with the reigning excitement.

  Mannering approached the group briskly, his face serious, his heart merry enough for him to do something absurd.

  He heard the motorist ask: ‘He actually caught the train?’

  ‘Yes, sir.’

  ‘What’s the first stop?’

  ‘Woodford Green, but . . .’

  The lean stranger swung round to one of the policemen.

  ‘Telephone the Woodford station to send three men there in a hurry. I’ll go along to the railway people.’

  Mannering had a surprise when the policeman saluted and said ‘Yes, sir.’ The laconic stranger was a senior detective.

  Mannering chuckled to himself in the back of the cab which took him to his Bloom Street flat. He pictured the faces of the passengers on the one-ten at Woodford, where every carriage would be searched for a big man in evening dress and a blue scarf, and with stolen property. He imagined the chagrin of the laconic detective and other police. He made a mental note to make sure that the detective should lose nothing financially.

  ‘And now,’ said Mannering to himself, as he slipped the papers from the capacious pocket of his coat, ‘let’s see what I’ve got.’

  At nine-fifteen on the morning following the Baron’s latest raid Augustus Teevens bought his papers as usual from the station bookstall at Staines, found a first-class carriage with a corner seat fore and aft – the fore was needed for Mr. Teevens to rest his patent-leather shoes – and opened the Daily Courier.

  Next moment he stared at the headlines, his mouth gaping, his eyes rounded. It wasn’t possible. It could not be possible! But the Courier would not lie on burglaries, whatever it did about politics and its true-life articles. Gus Teevens, rapidly feeling colder and colder, and breathing faster as the seconds flew, read on:
r />   The Baron Again

  Daring City Robbery

  Sensational Street Chase

  The offices of a firm of solicitors, Messrs Lobjoit, Meers and Lobjoit of 801a, Bishopsgate, were broken open in the early hours of the morning by the Baron, whose exploits are daily increasing in effrontery and daring. The motive of the theft is as yet not known, but one of the most amazing night chases in the history of the City of London startled—

  Gus Teevens read on and on. He saw that the suspect was believed to be in the Loughton district. He learned that Chief Inspector Rennett, of the City of London police, had been near the scene of the crime and among those who had grappled with the Baron. He learned still further that the Baron’s exploits were written up sympathetically by the Press—the Baron had glamour!—and he was at a high pitch of nervous tension by the time the train reached Waterloo. He half ran towards the taxi rank and clambered into a cab. He was perhaps the unhappiest and most worried man in London. But even then he was beginning to think clearly and wondering whether Fauntley’s stuff had been taken.

  If so, what did Mannering know about it?

  Chapter Nine

  SURRENDER

  Teevens’s flaccid face was paler than ever, his eyes were glittering, his fat hands trembling. The whisky-and-soda at his side, at eleven-fifteen that morning, bespoke his feelings.

  Matthew Lobjoit for once did not look a Victorian solicitor of vast stolidity and honesty. His sparse hair was awry, each leathery cheek had a burning spot of red, his hands were clenched and unclenched. He too had a whisky-and-soda.

  ‘All Fauntley’s papers, all Didcotte’s, all Mrs. Purnall’s. Teevens, it’s dreadful. Dreadful!’

  ‘For God’s sake shut up!’ roared Teevens. ‘Don’t I know it? And nothing else went, nothing! Just those three things.’

  ‘Enough to gaol us for ten years, don’t you understand? Teevens, we must fly.’

  ‘Don’t be a bloody fool,’ growled Teevens. ‘The police will be watching you for days. You couldn’t get as far as Calais. I—who the hell is that?’

  The voice of Mr. Teevens’s pale-faced secretary came with a quaver after a timid knock.

  ‘Wigham, sir. Mr . . .’

  ‘I’m not in, you fool! I’m not seeing anyone!’

  Teevens heaved himself out of his chair, padded to the door and flung it open. He was prepared to do violence to the puny Wigham, and his fist was raised.

  ‘Now, Gus,’ said Mannering reprovingly, ‘I didn’t think it of you.’

  Teevens stood in the doorway like a statue, his fist still raised. Mannering smiled, tall, lean, immaculate. Wigham was standing in the background, frantic with dismay. He saw Teevens subside like a punctured balloon, so he slipped away. Teevens retreated into the office. Mannering followed him, closing the door and waving to Lobjoit before he took a chair.

  ‘You’re not looking very well, Gus,’ he remarked.

  ‘Mannering. You’ve heard about . . .’

  ‘Last night?’ Mannering actually chuckled. ‘My dear Augustus, I paid for that job to be done. I admit that in the presence of two witnesses. The proceeds were given me two hours ago, I will admit,’ added Mannering, putting the tips of his fingers together, judicially, ‘that the results are even better than I’d hoped.’

  Teevens could not speak. He collapsed into a chair, and eyed Mannering as he would a cemetery of ghosts. Lobjoit licked his dry lips.

  ‘Mr. Mannering, you have just admitted in the presence of witnesses that you compounded a felony. I . . .’

  ‘Remember,’ said John Mannering, with an amiable smile at the solicitor, ‘it was only one felony. Some people manage to commit quite a number. Sit down, Lobjoit.’

  Matthew Lobjoit sat down. Mannering adjusted the crease of his trousers, took out cigarettes, lit one, and replaced the case. He looked prosperous and very contented.

  ‘It’s a pity that this has happened,’ he remarked. ‘It’s a greater pity that you ever tried to rob Fauntley.’

  ‘I didn’t rob Fauntley! I merely handled . . .’

  ‘Some of his business affairs. You lied to him, fooled him, cheated him, showed results on paper that aren’t borne out by facts, blackmailed him and threatened him. I have an idea,’ went on Mannering gently, ‘that in the list there are certain offences against the law of the land, but Mr. Lobjoit can doubtless correct me.’

  Lobjoit was screwing pieces of paper up and staring ahead of him, his lips trembling. Gus Teevens had become a quivering hulk.

  ‘I,’ he bleated. ‘I . . .’

  Mannering chuckled.

  ‘You have lost,’ he told Teevens, ‘you know what was in Fauntley’s box, and in Alice Purnall’s. Clear evidence of the fact that you dealt in hundreds and pretended these were thousands to Alice Purnall, to Fauntley. In short, Fauntley is supposed to have lost two hundred and fifty thousand pounds, whereas he lost twenty-five thousand. Alice Purnall lost forty thousand, whereas she lost four. Gus, that’s very bad. The minimum sentence would be ten years, although you’d probably get another four on another charge – blackmail. You’re both faced with fourteen years in gaol. What does that feel like?’

  Neither Teevens nor Lobjoit said a word. They stared at Mannering, their expressions of sheer hopelessness.

  ‘I suppose,’ said Mannering, ‘you would prefer me not to go to the police?’

  Lobjoit found a trickle of courage.

  ‘If you do I’ll tell them what you’ve admitted. You compounded . . .’

  ‘Do you seriously believe the police will believe in the story of two crooks?’

  Lobjoit did not try again. He sank into a frightened silence.

  ‘So you know what you’re up against,’ Mannering said. ‘I hold those papers, useful now or at any time to prove what you’ve been up to. And a further search of your strong-room, Lobjoit, would doubtless open the official eyes to a great deal of other peculiar deals. But I will strike a bargain with you.’

  Teevens snatched at his glass, tossed the whisky down, and looked at Mannering with a new-born hope. Lobjoit gulped and stood up.

  ‘Mannering, I’ll do anything, anything, if you will return those papers. I’ll do anything!’

  ‘I won’t return the papers,’ said Mannering. ‘There are some things that would be too easy for you. But I’ll undertake to say nothing to the police – if . . .’

  ‘But how shall we know that?’ demanded Teevens.

  ‘The very fact that you won’t be arrested will help you to understand,’ smiled Mannering. ‘But you may not like the other conditions. You will call Fauntley’s account balanced, and you will repay him one hundred thousand pounds. He will—’

  ‘Mannering, it’s madness, we can’t do it.’

  ‘The only alternative is the police,’ said Mannering. ‘Do your best, Gus. Fauntley will keep his deeds, and you will return any correspondence that might have passed between you. You will also write to Alice Purnall and tell her that owing to an error – or because certain investments have jumped suddenly – you owe her twenty thousand pounds. Have it done in forty-eight hours. And for ever after,’ added John Mannering, more grim now than he had been for the past ten minutes, ‘be strictly honest. I’ll have you both watched, so don’t slip up again.’

  Mannering stood up, smiling down at his two victims. He knew that they had been let off lightly, but he dared have no brushes with the law. They were worth half-a-million pounds each, and the retribution would serve as a lesson from which they might benefit.

  Teevens broke a long silence.

  ‘We—we’ll do it, Mannering. But what about Didcotte’s papers?’

  There was perspiration on Teevens’s brow, and a dry sweat on Lobjoit’s leathery face. Mannering chuckled to himself, but contrived to look puzzled.

  ‘Who is
Didcotte?’

  ‘You know who I mean. His papers were taken with the others!’

  ‘You’d better try and find the thief,’ said Mannering. ‘He’s probably going to use them.’

  ‘But you must know who he is!’

  ‘My dear Gus, I don’t mix with the fraternity. I went to an acquaintance and told him what I wanted. The papers reached me by post this morning. I certainly wouldn’t dream,’ added John Mannering, gathering his hat and stick and stepping to the door, ‘of doing anything which might implicate me. Don’t forget, forty-eight hours from now Fauntley’s to have full credit for his account and a cheque for a hundred thousand pounds. Mrs. Purnall wants twenty thousand. If it’s not arranged by midnight on Friday, up goes the balloon.’

  Mannering paused just long enough to bow sardonically, to raise his eyebrows and make himself look positively Machiavellian, and to leave a lingering impression of a lithe, brown-skinned, supremely confident man in the minds of Augustus Teevens and Matthew Lobjoit. He left the room, passing the nervous Wigham, who saw Mannering smile and told himself that there was a chance that Teevens would be in a better temper now.

  But Wigham was wrong.

  Both the Baron and John Mannering were busy next day.

  It was the day of the display of Fauntley jewels, and Fauntley behaved well enough to create the impression that he was the happiest man in the world. Mannering had not yet told him of the brush with Teevens and Lobjoit.

  Mannering went to the Portland Place house to see the collection. There were more precious stones there than he had handled in his life, an ironic thought. As a result the place was crawling with uniformed policemen and men in plain clothes. The Irawa Ruby was the star piece, a wonderful pigeon’s blood gem worth every penny of a hundred thousand pounds.

  The Baron in Mannering felt wistful at the sight of such wealth about without the opportunity for staging a raid, but he had long since put Fauntley’s stones beyond bounds.

  He was about to take his leave when he saw Bristow talking to a tall man in pale grey. He approached the spruce detective smilingly and tapped his arm. Bristow wheeled round, and the other man with him.