Meet The Baron tbs-1

by John Creasey

  “That phrase went out with the flood,” said Mannering. “So because I told you and Toby Plender I was worth twenty thousand some time ago, you both think I’m approaching my limit, and you exhume me and read the Riot Act.”

  “It is a tiling that worries us both a darned sight more than you seem to understand,” said Randall, with real seriousness. Damn it, neither Toby nor I want to see you go under.”

  Mannering’s eyes twinkled, and he nodded.

  “I know,” he said, “but what can you do with a man who’s tried the cure and found it doesn’t take ? You’ll only worry yourselves grey . . .”

  “About you ?” asked Randall coldly.

  “Oh, no. About the failure of your efforts to put me on the right path. And that reminds me, Jimmy, you’ve forgotten the racing and the boxing . . .”

  “Forgotten nothing,” snapped Randall. “The only thing you haven’t sunk your money on during this last year is beer . . .”

  “Make it alcohol in general,” murmured Mannering.

  “And when you’re down to your last pound or so,” said Randall, “you’ll start that. For the last time — will you drop it?”

  There was silence for a moment. Mannering’s eyes held his friend’s. He had known Randall for twenty years, through the hot enthusiasm of school-days, the blast years of Cambridge, the recklessness that had followed, and the calmer days of the past five years. He understood Randall; he understood the other member of the trio of friends, Toby Plender, who was also in London; but he did not understand himself, as he answered slowly: “No, Jimmy. Sorry. I’ve set my course, and I’ll stick to it. If I’m blown off it” — he shrugged his shoulders and grinned, that old, cheerful grin — “I’ll find another.”

  “You’re a fool,” said Randall.

  “We’ll celebrate a mutual understanding in a spot more brandy,” said Mannering.

  Although he left Randall on that inconsequential note, Mannering was by no means pleased to learn that his friends were taking so close an interest in him. He felt that he wanted to do exactly as he liked, and the thought of interference annoyed him. On the other hand, he had the good sense to realise that neither Randall nor Plender would act — or talk — without the best of motives, and he did not propose to allow the affair to affect a friendship that had weathered many storms.

  If his feeling of irritation left him as he walked towards the City — and Plender’s office — he did not intend to let Plender get away with the thing without some protest. True, it could hardly be called a breach of confidence that the solicitor had told Randall how low Mannering’s finances were, for the three of them had known for a long time most that there was to know about one another, while Plender could say to Randall things that he could say to no other man on earth.

  He reached the solicitor’s office, and was taken to the junior partner’s room immediately. As the door closed, and before he sat down, he smiled sardonically at his friend.

  “I’d like to know,” he said, with a show of annoyance not altogether discounted by the smile in his eyes, “whether you call yourself a solicitor or a talking parrot ? I suppose you didn’t tell Mimi Rayford that I was down to my last five thousand, did you ?”

  “Never heard of Mimi Rayford,” said Toby Plender equably.

  “Nor Jimmy Randall ?”

  “That,” said Toby, pressing the tips of his fingers together, “was between friends.” He grinned, and pushed a box of cigarettes across the desk. “Well, what’s your trouble?”

  “I’m going to change my solicitor,” said Mannering, put ting his hat and stick on the desk and clearing a corner for his feet. “Mind if I sit down ?”

  Plender surveyed the size-ten shoes resting on his desk, shifted his gaze to Mannering’s quizzing eyes, and grinned.

  “So you’re rattled enough to think of changing your solicitor?”

  “Rattled, no. Careful, yes,” said Mannering. “And when I say change I mean cancel out entirely. Solicitors seem to me too solicitous.”

  “H’m,” said Plender, “h’m. So you’re taking the last five thousand, are you ?”

  “Yes, and putting it in a bank. It’s nice to feel you have my welfare at heart, Toby, but it’s a strain being the victim of good intentions.”

  “I thought it would do it,” said Plender, half to himself. He was a small man, faultlessly dressed, with a hooked nose, a Punch of a chin, and a pair of disconcertingly direct grey eyes. At thirty-five Toby Plender had a reputation for being the smartest criminal lawyer in London, and he coupled this with the fact that he was nearly bald. His humour was dry when it was not caustic, and he shared with Jimmy Randall a regard for John Mannering and a growing concern for their friend’s recent activities.

  “You thought it would do what?” asked Mannering.

  “Make you think,” said Plender. “It’s time you did, John; time you thought hard, and stopped chucking away your cash.”

  “D’you know,” said Mannering, “you and Jimmy should sing duets together — you both harp so on ancient ditties. Toby

  Plender’s eyes were hard; he was taking this thing seriously, and Mannering’s flippancy annoyed him.

  “Well?”

  “Don’t try to reform me. I’ve had the itch for gambling since I was so high, and it’s been part of my make-up all the time, even though I kept it down for a while. So . . .”

  “Supposing she’d married you ?” asked Plender.

  “Supposing the dead could speak? They can’t. She didn’t. Have I made myself clear?”

  Toby Plender nodded, and slid his hands into his pockets.

  “Yes,” he said. “You’re a fool — and you deserve all you get.”

  “Without trimmings,” said Mannering. That’s what Jimmy said. To make a start, I’ll have one of your cigarettes.”

  He smiled, and Plender followed suit, a little reluctantly. He realised that Mannering had set his course and was not prepared to alter it.

  “Any time I can keep you out of the divorce courts,” said the solicitor, watching the other take his feet from the desk, “let me know. You stopped just in time with Mimi.”

  “And you said you’d never heard of her,” said Mannering sorrowfully. “Shall I tell you something, Toby?”

  “Providing you remember my fee for an opinion is six-and-eightpence.”

  “Too heavy by far,” riposted Mannering. “Well — Mimi’s husband hadn’t got a case. Nor have any of them. I thought I’d tell you, to ease your mind. Pass it on to Jimmy, will you?”

  Mannering told himself as he walked back to the Elan — even now he walked whenever possible, for he was essentially athletic, and fitness was almost an obsession with him — that he had cleared the air a great deal, and that on the whole Toby had taken it well. One thing was certain: no one in the world would know the state of his bank-balance, and it would be easy enough, if he so chose, to create the impression that he was making money. There were many ways of making it, although, in his experience, most of those methods were more likely to have the opposite effect.

  There was no reason in his mind, just then, for the move. He was not even playing with the idea that was to seize him very soon with a force that he could not resist. Afterwards it seemed to him that the thing was forming even before he was conscious of it. He felt desperate — and he wanted to gamble; what the gamble was like didn’t matter, provided the stakes were high.

  Well — he had five thousand pounds, and while any of it remained he did not propose to alter what Toby would have called “his ways”. He felt pleased at the step he had taken, even if he did not realise its far-reaching effect.

  10.30 a.m. Sam, clerk to Billy Tricker, turf-accountant, lifted the telephone to his ear and gave his employer’s name wearily.

  “Mannering,” said the man at the other end of the wire. “A hundred Blackjack, at sevens, to win . . .”

  “Can’t do it. Sixes.”

  “All right, sixes. Double any to come with Feodora, at fives.”


  “She’s up — sixes too. The lot?”

  “Yes,” said Mannering.

  “O.K.,” said Sam, and wearily summarised: “One hundred on Blackjack, 2.30, Lingfield, to win; any to come Feodora, 4 o’clock. Both sixes. Thanks, Mr M.”

  11.30 a.m. “Yes, Mr Mannering, I’ve several of your cards. Just a moment, Mr Mannering, I’ll make a note . . .”

  Florette, florist of Bond Street, pulled an order-pad towards her. She repeated Mannering’s order in an expressionless voice, but there was a smile on her lips, for in the past twelve months she had taken similar instructions from Mannering so many times that she was beginning to see the funny side of it.

  “Four white roses — four dozen, I beg your pardon — to Miss Alice Vavasour, at 7 Queen’s Gate, and two dozen red carnations to Miss Madaline Sayer, at the Lenville Theatre. Yes, Mr Mannering; thank you, Mr Mannering.”

  12.30 p.m. “But I really can’t, John; I’m rehearsing this afternoon, and I’ve two shows to-morrow — idiot !”

  “Did I hear the renowned Miss Vavasour say “idiot”?” asked Mannering.

  “Only over the telephone. No, I can’t. I’ll see you in the dressing-room. John, be a darling. Yes, lunch and tea the day after to-morrow. And, darling, the roses were exquisite, but you shouldn’t. . . . Idiot, how could I help it? You’ll try and come round to-night?”

  1.30 p.m. “They call this place,” said Mannering, “the Ritz, and you told me that you would meet me here at one o’clock. Explain, sweet Adeline, how that meant one-thirty.”

  “A woman’s privilege to be late,” said Madaline Sayer, “and if you call me Adeline again I’ll scratch your face.”

  “It’s no woman’s privilege,” said Mannering, “to give me indigestion. That’s our table. And Adeline’s a nicer name than Madaline; more popular too.”

  Madaline Sayer laughed. She was a little woman with a pink-and-white fluffiness that passed for loveliness, and a genuine contralto that made her a popular star at the Lenville. On that day she was at peace with the world, for it was no mean achievement to take John Mannering from Mimi Rayford. Between Mimi of the Continental and Madaline of the Lenville there existed a rivalry in most things, especially the conquest of man. Conquest of John Mannering, Madaline knew, could only be temporary, but to get him direct from Mimi was just too ravishing.

  “You’re a brute,” she said. “What’s this about indigestion? Ooo! John, look at the thing inside that frock . . .”

  “I’ve to be at Lingfield at three-fifteen,” said Mannering, glancing idly at a debutante in a floral creation which had excited his companion’s envy and admiration, “which means that I must be away by two.”

  “John! I thought we were going to have the whole afternoon. There’s that divine house-boat I’m longing to rent this summer . . .”

  She pouted, while Mannering ordered lunch, and was still pouting when he laughed at her. The gleam of his teeth against his dark skin seemed to stab her. She looked round the room, and a dozen pairs of eyes turned quickly away, eyes directed at Mannering, not at her. She must play her cards carefully with him. He was as rich as Colossus, they said — or was it Croesus ? — and he was certainly the most exciting man in London. Someone had compared his smile with Rollson’s, but Rolly wasn’t in it.

  She stopped pouting, and tapped his ankle gently beneath the table.

  “Well, if you must I suppose you must. Couldn’t I. . .”

  Her eyes sparkled, and her lips opened slightly in carefully simulated expectation. Mannering chuckled.

  “My dear, you look adorable, but I’m going alone. And if we talk too much my digestion’s ruined.”

  “Serve you right,” she snapped. She was angry for a moment, and her prettiness was spoiled. “You’ll never get to Lingfield in time, anyhow.”

  “I’m flying from Croydon.”

  “Trust you.”

  “I couldn’t have lunched with you,” said Mannering, “if I’d planned to go by road, so . . .”

  “John, you darling! Oo, and I forgot. The carnations were divine. How did you know that I liked them?”

  “You must have let it slip out,” said Mannering dryly.

  2 .05 p.m. Mannering hurried towards the car waiting for him outside the Ritz, but stopped as Toby Plender’s voice hailed him.

  You again,” he smiled. “Don’t tell me you’ve been lunching with the flighty.”

  “A client,” said Plender. “I didn’t think it possible, J.M., to go lower than Mimi Rayford, but you win.”

  “What’s this ? Another way of calling me a fool ?”

  “There aren’t any other ways left,” said Plender amiably. “Where are you going?”

  “Lingfield, via Croydon. Coming?”

  “ I earn my living.”

  “I get mine honestly,” chuckled Mannering.

  He travelled to Croydon by road, and in his haste to catch the plane that was going to the racecourse broke many speed-regulations, and spared little time for thinking. But in the air, with the country-side opening out beneath him like a large-scale relief map, and the sun burning into the cabin, he thought a great deal. Toby was still worrying the bone, even though the solicitor had no idea how close his friend was to the border-line. Even now Mannering was not conscious of the idea that was to master him so soon, but he did recognise that the need for finding a way of making money was increasingly urgent; he had not the slightest desire to go under. Of course, it was possible to make money on horses, but. . .

  He smiled sardonically, and watched the teeming crowd below as the aeroplane circled over the course and then prepared to land in a near-by field. Despite the fact that he had taken a great deal of trouble to make sure he reached Lingfield, he did not feel the same fascination as he had done a few months before. There was something lacking in the appeal of racing and betting; only the gambler’s instinct in him urged him on.

  4.00 p.m. Lord Fauntley — plain Hugo Fauntley a few years before — grey-hatted and grey-haired, was fretting nearly as much as the horses at the tape. Mannering, next to him, was smiling easily, hands in pockets and cigarette in the corner of his mouth. The crowd was humming; the raucous voices of the bookies laying their last-minute odds were high above the hum. The line of horses was level at last, and the tape went up.

  The crowd roared, and Lord Fauntley bit his lip.

  And then the din subsided until it was like distant thunder, with only those spectators near the rails catching the beat of the horses’ hoofs thudding against the sun-baked turf. Mannering heard Fauntley shifting from one foot to the other, and smiled.

  “Where is she, Mannering, where is she?” Fauntley stammered. “I didn’t see — I’m still as nervous as a kitten at this game, and I’ve been in it more years than I can remember. Where

  “She had number five,” said Mannering, “and started well. Blackjack dropped to fours, did he?”

  “Yes — damn Blackjack !”

  “But not Feodora.” Mannering grinned, and swept the course through his glasses. He saw the yellow and red of Simmons, on Feodora; he was riding his mount well. Feodora was running fourth, between a little bunch in the lead, and the rest of the field was huddled together twenty yards behind.

  “Will she . . .” began Fauntley.

  “She’s capable of it,” said Mannering. “She’s moving up. . . The Setter’s dropped behind . . .”

  “Where are my glasses ?” muttered Fauntley. “I never can find the darned things.”

  “Shouldn’t stuff ‘em in your pockets,” said Mannering.

  He smiled to himself, knowing that Lord Fauntley, with five hundred on Feodora, could have laid five thousand or fifty thousand, and taken a loss without being worried. There would be a certain amusement to be derived from separating Lord Fauntley from the Liska diamond, for instance.

  “You had a job getting the Liska,” Mannering said aloud.

  “Damn the Liska! Where’s Feodora ?”

  “Second at the mile an
d a half.”

  “Second, eh ? And she’s a stayer — I know she’s a stayer.”

  “Marriland is coming up,” said Mannering thoughtfully.

  He was thinking less of Feodora and Marriland, battling now towards the two-mile post ready for the straight run home, than of Lord Fauntley and the Liska diamond. The Post that morning had recorded, with its superb indifference, that Fauntley had outbidden Rawson for the diamond at the figure of nine thousand seven hundred and fifty pounds. The Liska would eventually adorn the plump neck of the peeress, and it was difficult to imagine a less worthy resting-place — or so Mannering believed. H’m ! A particularly foolish train of thought.

  Was it? Fauntley could stand the loss.

  “Where is she?” muttered Fauntley irritably. “Damn it, Mannering, you know my eyes aren’t what they were.”

  “Still second,” said Mannering, “and turning into the straight! Ah! Simmons is touching her. Good boy, Simmons ! She’ll do it.”

  The excitement of the finish stirred him now. Feodora and Marriland pounded along the hard track, with the rest of the bunch fighting for third place. The murmur of the crowd was fiercer now, and the sea of white faces turned towards the two horses. Feodora’s jockey was using his whip, flicking his horse’s flank. Jackson, on Marriland, was hitting his mount. Mannering was watching the faces of the two jockeys through his glasses. Simmons’s tense, expectant, hopeful, and Jackson’s grim almost to fierceness. Yard by yard the battle was fought, with the winning-post within a hundred yards — ninety — eighty . . .”

  “Neck-and-neck,” muttered Fauntley nervously.

  “She’ll do it,” said Mannering. “Gome on, Simmons — another yard — you’re in the lead.”

  Fifty yards to go — forty — thirty . . .

  Lord Fauntley hopped on one foot, then on the other. Mannering’s eyes were very hard and bright. Simmons was almost home.