The Baron Returns

by John Creasey

  ‘There’s an inside story, of course,’ he said.

  ‘Concerning Augustus Teevens?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘I know Teevens. I wouldn’t trust him anywhere, and Daddy seemed to rely on him too much. I knew you weren’t looking for trouble’—she smiled at him as she sat at the wheel—’and I’d heard rumours of Alice Purnall’s necklace. So I put one and a half and two and a bit together. Have you finished with Teevens?’

  ‘I think so.’

  ‘Don’t be too sure,’ Lorna said.

  ‘Am I ever?’ Mannering asked lightly. ‘Now let’s talk about you, and we’ll get the worst over first. Have you heard from Rennigan?’

  ‘Only the usual monthly demand,’ Lorna said, and her expression almost defied Mannering’s understanding. They went along in silence for twenty minutes, with the Jaguar devouring the miles, and the hills and moor spreading out in front of them and on all sides.

  They stopped at the crest of a hill, for a grey-blue mist was spreading over a vale below, and above it the tops of the trees seemed like spires touching the blue of the skies. To the east the sun was spreading its aura of yellow and gold, but the heat was tempered by a soft wind. Mannering revelled in the scene. Lorna glanced behind her and saw a car some hundred yards away. Twenty minutes later they passed it pulled into the side of the road.

  ‘A Perth station cab,’ Lorna said thoughtfully, ‘They don’t often come out as far as this.’

  They were in Coupar Angus when they next saw the cab, and this time Mannering took notice of the lantern-jawed passenger. He had taken the wheel, and he was beginning to wonder whether Lantern-Jaw was the casual traveller he seemed to be.

  He had seen the man at Perth and thought nothing of it, but to have two people on their tail was strange, to say the least. It was stranger still when the cab passed the drive of Fauntley’s Forfarshire house, a moment after the Jaguar had turned in.

  ‘He’s following you,’ Lorna said.

  ‘We’ll keep a look out for the gentleman,’ Mannering said. ‘One thing’s certain; he won’t get anything up here.’

  ‘You’re going to be so good!’

  ‘I’m going to be lazy,’ said Mannering, and he was longing to get into the house, to greet Lady Fauntley and then to take Lorna in his arms.

  Meanwhile Lantern-Jaw was enquiring for a room at an expensive hotel in Glamis. As Teevens was paying the bill it might as well be a big one.

  In the course of the week things amused Mannering and worried Lorna. Lantern-Jaw was often near them. Occasionally they walked across the moors without him, but more often than not he was close at hand. A slim, youthful-looking man from Scotland Yard, named Ward, had reached Glamis on the train after Mannering’s, but Mannering had expected someone from the Yard. Ward represented little or no menace, but Lantern-Jaw was an unknown quantity.

  The headlines that had followed The Towers burglary had died away. For four days there had not been a paragraph concerning the latest statement of the police that an arrest was pending, but on the fifth day the Scots Echo, looking for a synthetic sensation, ran a special article on the Baron.

  The Baron was popular even up here.

  The public read of his exploits, knew that no one suffered who could not comfortably afford to and watched the career of the Baron with an increasing interest. He was a lone man pitting himself against the police and society. His daring had rarely been equalled. And the feature writer in the Echo developed the glamour of the Baron.

  And [went on the article] I learned that a house in Wimbledon recently used by the cracksman was found by the police. It was let later on his written instructions, and the proceeds of the letting were given to the Police Orphanage. What can one make of a man who lives a life of crime, and yet has time for sudden flashes of humour and human generosity.

  In a dozen ways the Police Orphanage story, given to the Press by the estate agent who had overheard Lynch mention the Baron, was written up for the public. Gossip helped to strengthen the legend. Two country house burglaries in Sussex were attributed to the Baron, and a fresh wave of publicity started. In it all the Baron saw what others had seen before.

  He was a legendary figure now, and he had as many admirers as he had enemies. His partisans were legion, north and south of the Tweed. Even Lady Fauntley, a cheerful little woman who remembered the days when her Hugo had been a simple bookmaker’s clerk, commented on him favourably.

  ‘You can’t approve of barefaced robbery,’ Mannering said easily.

  ‘Well—well, certainly not,” said Lucy Fauntley. ‘He deserves to be caught. But I hope they don’t get him, John; I do hope they don’t.’

  ‘Then you’re as big a criminal as he is,’ Lorna said. ‘Stuff and nonsense, my dear! I’ve seen you reading the stories about him with a lot more interest than you should.’ Her eyes twinkled at Mannering, whose heart jumped suddenly. Could she have guessed? ‘You shouldn’t leave her alone so long, John. And, by the way, did Hugo say whether he was coming? I really forget. I expect he will, because there’s a big party at The Lodge – Colonel Moore’s place, you know – and Hugo nearly always comes up for it.’

  ‘What kind of party?’ asked Mannering.

  ‘Oh jewels, John. You really should see the Colonel’s collection. I simply hate the man, and so does Hugo, but I have to admit his collection is every bit as good as ours. Hugo doesn’t, but, of course, he’s jealous. And so is Moore. You should have heard him when he learned that Hugo had managed to get that pigeon’s-egg ruby from the Museum. He simply frothed at the mouth.’

  ‘Not here?’ Mannering said, his brows raised.

  ‘Yes, here! The man’s a pig. He wouldn’t have done it if Hugo had been about, but he came and was most rude. I had to try very hard not to be rude back. You must meet the Colonel, John; he’s like you in many ways, the beast. He—oh! Lorna, why didn’t you warn me?—I didn’t mean it like that at all. Only to look at, John. He’s coming to see me this afternoon. He’s heard you’re a collector, and he’ll boast, I expect. What did you say, Lorna?’

  Lorna stopped laughing, and kissed Lucy Fauntley’s greying hair.

  ‘I said you were priceless, darling. So Colonel Moore is coming this afternoon. John, didn’t you say you had to be at Edinburgh?’

  ‘You can’t leave me alone!’ protested Lucy Fauntley, aghast at the suggestion. ‘I told him particularly to come and meet John.’

  She looked imploringly at John Mannering.

  ‘I wouldn’t dream of leaving you alone with such a monster,’ Mannering said.

  Colonel Moore was wealthy and arrogant, with a streak of meanness and a streak of greed. His collection was closely guarded, and he boasted frequently that no thief would ever break in. His strong-room was impregnable, absolutely impregnable.

  ‘Even to the Baron,’ declared Colonel Moore; a large, rather flabby man, with dark hair and pale brown eyes.

  ‘Absolutely impregnable, my little place. Why don’t you come and see it? I’ll have all the stones out on display the night before the party.’

  Lorna, sitting in an easy chair, gripped the arms tightly, for she could sense a challenge Mannering would not be able to resist. Lady Fauntley said under her breath that the Colonel had never asked Hugo to see the collection before the show – she said ‘show’ aloud and disparagingly. Mannering smiled.

  ‘I’d like to,’ he said. Lorna was suddenly afraid.

  Chapter Seventeen

  BURGLARY AT THE LODGE

  ‘I suppose it’s useless to ask you not to go?’ Lorna said.

  She spoke as Mannering was sitting opposite her in the drawing-room of the Glamis house.

  ‘Do you want me to stay away?’

  ‘There’s the policeman, and the other man, both watching you. It’s different here from the south. You don’t k
now the country well, and it would be easy to fall foul of the Scottish police.’

  ‘Probably,’ agreed Mannering.

  ‘All of which makes you want to try,’ Lorna said, with a laugh. ‘Well, I’m not going to start telling you what to do, but darling, be careful.’

  ‘I’ll warn you if I feel like getting to work,’ Mannering assured her. In fact he was wondering whether it would be wise to tackle Colonel Moore’s place. He disliked Moore, who was the worst type of ex-officer, and incredibly arrogant. It would be almost worthwhile to raid The Lodge, which was two miles from Fauntley’s house, because of that alone.

  Mannering decided to visit the Colonel socially, for a start. He reached the decision on the morning of the day then he was due to go to The Lodge. Lorna and Lady Lucy had gone into Perth for shopping, and the Baron spent the morning alone, walking the moors and telling himself that Scotland could hardly be beaten for ruggedness and space. He timed his return to the house for lunch, when Lorna was due. He was late, reaching home at a quarter-past one, and the first voice he heard as he reached the morning-room door was Lorna’s.

  ‘Now will you get out?’

  The Baron stiffened. There was a hard note in Lorna’s voice, a tenseness he had rarely heard. He waited, seeing that the door was ajar, thus accounting for the clearness with which he heard the outburst.

  Colonel Moore’s gruff tones followed, and the Colonel was not in a good temper.

  ‘You’re a little spitfire, are you? Spitfires have been tamed, my dear.’

  His voice grew louder towards the end, and Mannering stood a couple of yards back as the door opened and Moore, his face a turkey red, stamped into the passage.

  Mannering saw Lorna, standing by the table and very pale. Moore pulled up, taken by surprise, and Mannering kept a tight hold on himself. He would certainly not have gone to The Lodge that night but for Lucy Fauntley, who hurried from the drawing-room suddenly and blundered short-sightedly towards Mannering.

  ‘Oh, there you are, John, we kept lunch for you. I—er—oh, I didn’t expect you to be here still, Colonel. Will you stay to lunch?’

  ‘Er—no, thanks, no,’ grunted Moore. Probably he had seen the warning light in Mannering’s eyes. He nodded to Lady Lucy, murmured ‘See you tonight’ to Mannering.

  Lorna was more relaxed when Mannering came back. They had no time for talking until after lunch, when Mannering asked: ‘What happened?’

  Lorna’s eyes were twinkling.

  ‘Jealous, darling? Moore’s an old fool. Don’t take any notice of him.’

  ‘Was it the first time he’d tried to discover you were a spitfire?’ Mannering asked lightly.

  ‘Oh, he’s quite harmless . . .’

  ‘Tell me a charity you would like Moore to contribute a few thousands to, darling, and it’s as good as done. And if any other lecherous old reprobate tries tricks, don’t hold out on me for so long.’

  ‘Do you really think you can manage him?’

  ‘Or that impregnable safe of his?’

  ‘One and the same, aren’t they?’

  ‘More or less,’ chuckled Mannering. ‘We’ll use strategy instead of brute force, sweetheart.’

  Colonel Arnold Moore held his house-party once a year, and always celebrated the first day of it by showing his collection of precious stones. It was a large collection, and Mannering agreed, when he visited The Lodge that evening that it rivalled Fauntley’s. He found Moore affable enough now. He was probably wondering whether the argument in the morning-room had been overheard. Lorna and Lady Fauntley had decided to stay at home. Mannering admired the stones and passed remarks enough to convince Moore that he was an expert judge. Under the influence of a succession of double whiskies, Moore waxed eloquent.

  ‘It’s a wonderful collection, Mannering, although I say it myself. Not ashamed of a single jewel in it. And in a wonderful place. That strong-room’s absolutely impregnable.’

  ‘Of course, you use a watchman as well?’

  ‘Oh, yes, old Menzies. But there’s no need. It’s electrically operated. That’s the secret. Don’t tell it to everyone, of course, but that’s it. Doors so thick it would hardly be possible to cut through with a burner. Possible, of course, but a long job. Specially reinforced with asbestos wire to resist oxy-acetylene flames. Absolutely impossible for anyone to get inside that strong-room.’

  ‘It’s a remarkable place,’ conceded Mannering.

  The strong-room at The Lodge was on the ground floor, and, as at The Towers, it was surrounded by blank walls. While the keep had been built inside the castle, the strong-room had once been an ordinary room, but Moore had had two windows bricked up. There was no means of access except through the library.

  The door of the room was eighteen inches thick, and Mannering was prepared to believe that it would resist a burner unless the flame was in use for several hours. To obviate the possibility of that, Moore explained, his one guard – actually a ghillie who had a great deal of spare time – walked through the library once every hour through the night.

  ‘And he’s armed, of course,’ Mannering said, showing an intelligent interest.

  ‘Yes, of course, and he’s a good shot. Oldish, but good. Not that there’s anything to worry about, Mannering.’

  ‘But confound it,’ exclaimed Mannering, ‘you don’t leave a quarter of a million pounds’ worth of stuff in that strong-room with only one old man to guard it. Particularly when it’s on display, as it is now?’

  Moore blinked round the room, which was practically square, some twelve feet by twelve. The walls were lined with small safes, each in turn operated on the same electrical principle with current supplied by a powerful generating plant in the gardens of The Lodge.

  ‘Between ourselves, Mannering, there will be one or two others tonight. Don’t want it generally known. Experts, as a matter of fact, from London.’

  ‘Yard men?’ Mannering flashed, and filled Moore’s glass.

  ‘Yard men – poof! Certainly not. Good agency men are better any day. A policeman gets paid whether he does his job or not, but a private agent’s paid only by results. Consequently does a much, much better job. Haw! Mannering, I’m tired! Quite worn out.’

  ‘I’ll be getting back,’ said Mannering, taking the hint. Yawning most of the time, Moore tried to press him to a final night-cap and saw him to the door.

  Outside Mannering was very thoughtful.

  The strong-room was as nearly impregnable as anything could be. The men from London added the final touch. It was lucky Moore had been drunk enough to tell him about that. A queer fellow, Moore, secretive in many ways, and but for Mannering’s direct questions the news of the special agents would have been kept back. The biggest hazard was the element of uncertainty. Four men could be easily handled if he had foreknowledge of them, but to come expecting one and to find three or four, lengthened the odds.

  But there was a weak link at The Lodge. With a little luck it would prove possible, but, before he started there was the problem of the lantern-jawed man and Ward, from Scotland Yard.

  As it happened, Gus Teevens’s man made a mistake, after seeing Mannering leave The Lodge and reach Fauntley’s house. He took it for granted that nothing would happen that night. He had orders only to watch Mannering and report, and had no idea that Mannering was the Baron, or he might have spent less time in bed during the night and more during the day. He saw Mannering enter the smaller house, but did not know that Mannering followed him half the way back to Glamis to make sure he was settled for the night.

  Ward, the Yard man, was a different proposition. For the most part he was on duty by night. Moreover, there was just the possibility that he was co-operating with the Scottish police.

  It was midnight when Mannering reached Fauntley’s house after his visit to The Lodge.

  Lad
y Fauntley had gone to bed; Lorna was dozing in an easy chair. She looked up with a tired smile as he opened the door.

  ‘Have you finished?’

  ‘I’m just going to start, sweetheart. Why aren’t you in bed?’

  ‘I’m not going to bed,’ said Lorna. ‘John isn’t this a time when two are better than one?’

  ‘Which two?’ Mannering took her wrists, pulled her out of the chair, and kissed her. He picked her up, carrying her without an effort, and deposited her two minutes later by the side of her bed. She was laughing a little, and in the dim light of the lamp from the hall she could see his gay smile that was always there when he was starting ‘work’.

  ‘One of us behind bars will be more than enough, thank you, and remember your morals. I’ll come up when I’m back.’

  Ward, that young and hopeful policeman, was hiding in the grounds of the Fauntley house. Mannering had seen him when he had entered, but he could not see him from the windows. Nonetheless, he believed he could outwit his man. Ward was waiting near the front gate; there was a back one, and no one could be in two places at once.

  Mannering had brought his tools with him, and wrapped them about his waist in the same way as usual. Now he was only wearing the blue handkerchief for disguise.

  Mannering, with a dark coat turned up to hide his shirt-front, a trilby hat pulled well down in the front and blue fabric gloves with rubber fingertips pulled over his hands, felt reasonably safe from discovery. He merged with the darkness as he left the house by a side entrance, walking towards the front drive gates on the outside of the hedge surrounding the house grounds.

  Just inside, and behind a row of laurels, Ward was waiting. There was still a light in Mannering’s room. Mannering had left it there purposely, guessing Ward’s attention would be on it. He was right. Ward was staring towards the lighted window, and did not hear the Baron’s approach.