by John Creasey
Plender rubbed the tip of his hooked nose.
“So you’re still rattled about that, are you?”
“Toby,” said Mannering, “you misunderstand me. You and Jimmy acted with the best of intentions, and anything but gratitude would be out of the question. And that’s by the way; it’s past now.”
“It’s a pity,” said Plender, “that you’ve struck a good patch. One or two heavy losses just now might have made you see sense. As it is, I’m afraid you’re hopeless.”
Mannering grinned, and lit a cigarette.
“I always have been,” he said. “Now — what’s on your mind?”
Plender sat back in his chair, looking more like Punch than ever.
“Of course,” he said, “it’s no business of mine, but — is it the thing, John, this new — new . . .”
“ Let me say it for you,” suggested Mannering sympathetically. “What’s my game with Lorna Fauntley ? Right?”
“Right.”
“What idea is biting you? Do you think I’m going to try blackmail ?”
Plender grinned. “You were a born fool, J.M. No. I don’t suppose there’s anything you could use against her, anyhow. But her father’s a rich man. You might — I say might — be thinking of . . .”
“Let me help you again,” suggested Mannering. “Cashing in. Marrying for money. Right?”
“Right.”
“You’re a bigger mutt than I, Toby,” said Mannering. “I don’t really know why I don’t collar you two and bang your silly heads together. For the love of Mike stop doing the Victorian father on me, and watch me knock the bottom out of the betting market. Another thing. Use your legal training a little more, and realise the inconsistency of god-damning me when I ride with the Mimi Rayford bunch and when I run blamelessly with the daughter of a peer of the realm. Another thing. I’m going to buy five thousand Klobber Diamond Mines shares, and if you want a good thing, get in on that. And, Toby . . .”
“H’m-h’m?” muttered Toby Plender.
“I’m not such a fool as I look.”
Mannering took his leave soon afterwards, smiling to himself. It had been an ordeal, but it was over. Several times he had felt as though Plender knew, he chuckled at the fear now, and wondered what Plender would have said if he had known of the raid on the Fauntley strong-room.
Well, he was in it now for better or worse.
A few minutes later Toby Plender rubbed the end of his nose and looked thoughtfully out of the window of his flat after the retreating figure of his friend as he walked up the street.
Twenty years was a long stretch; in twenty years he had known J.M. play the ass to the limit, but he had never known him play the rogue. A smile curved Toby Plender’s square lips.
“He’s leading us by the nose,” he muttered to himself. “All of us. Klobber Diamond Mines . . .”
The Klobber Mines, Plender discovered twenty minutes later, were as nearly defunct as horse-drawn cabs. His informant was Gus Teevens, one of the biggest and most picturesque brokers on the Exchange. Gus was a giant of a man, fat, smooth-faced, innocent to look at, and possessing a deep, rich, unctuous voice that could have swayed a multitude if its owner had so chosen, either in the political arena or in the Church. He had chosen finance as his medium, however, and he used his voice for the benefit of those few friends who sought his advice.
“Plender,” he said solemnly, “don’t buy Klobbers. Klobber himself was a rogue. He died. His mines were a frost. They died. His shares are drawn in pretty colours and look good. Have you ever seen an embalmed body ?”
“So you don’t like the sound of them?” said Plender.
Teevens shook his massive head and wriggled his massive body in the swivel-chair in front of his desk. His office was a large one, furnished barely on the modern principle, but he seemed to fill it.
“Plender,” he said, “you have a fair portion of this world’s goods. Cling to it. Whoever was the misguided oaf who in-troduced you to Klobber Diamonds, shun him as you would the plague. Must you go?”
“I must,” said Toby Plender, grinning. “What are Klobbers standing at?”
“Shares one pound at par, two-and-threepence on the market.”
Plender hesitated. He smiled inwardly as he realised that after trying to dissuade Mannering from gambling he was being tempted to take a chance on Mannering’s opinion. He decided to take it, and smiled.
“Then buy me a block of a thousand,” he said.
Gus Teevens shook his head sadly, as a man looking on a ruined world.
“Plender,” he said, “I have warned you.”
“And sell them,” said Plender, “when they’ve reached par.”
He left the office of the stockbroker, smiling to himself a little crookedly. No one could have been more definite than Teevens; no one could be more unreliable than Mannering.
In his office Gus Teevens lifted the receiver off one of five telephones and put in a call, later conducting a conversation which might, for all its intelligibility to the layman, have been in a foreign language. Massive and deliberate as ever, Teevens finished his call, then made others on the five telephones. For twenty minutes he was talking, and as the minutes went by his face grew redder, and little bands of sweat gathered on his smooth forehead. In different ways to different people he said, “Buy Klobbers.”
Lord Fauntley was in a bad temper one morning shortly after Plender’s talk with Gus Teevens. His lordship told himself he had good reason to be annoyed, but his staff sighed when they realised that the chances of another bad day in the office were strong. He sorted through the post quickly, and then rang for his secretary, Gregory. It was a rule in Fauntley’s business life always to open private correspondence himself, for he worked on the basis that no one else could be trusted.
Gregory came in silently, and bowed.
“Good morning, my lord.”
“Look here, Gregory” — Fauntley rarely allowed himself to bandy words, about the weather or anything else, with the men who worked for him — “Klobbers. Yesterday they were bad, and to-day . . .”
“Sixteen-and-eightpence, my lord,” said Gregory. “Mr Marshall told me himself that he can’t buy them lower. They were fourteen-and-three yesterday. Shall we continue to buy, my lord ?”
“Of course, you fool, buy! Buy all you can while they’re below par, and then stop. But, listen, Gregory, if I thought you knew anything about this leakage . . .”
Gregory had been secretary to Lord Fauntley too long to take exception to the remark or the manner of it. He was a tall, pale-faced man of fifty, a confirmed bachelor, and a chronic dyspeptic.
“I assure you, my lord, the sharp rise was as much a surprise to me as to you. I was particularly careful to issue instructions only to the safest of brokers, and I think it can be safely assumed that the leakage in information was through sources other than our own. Is there anything else, my Lord ?”
“Oh, get out,” muttered Lord Fauntley.
“Shall I send Mr Mannering in, my lord ?”
“Mannering? Oh — oh, yes.”
Fauntley summoned a smile, but was not entirely successful in hiding his irritation. It was rare, even for the managing-director of the Fauntley Financial Trust, to find a thing like the Klobber Diamond Mines, and he had expected to get the whole fruit for himself. The fact that he had been compelled to share it was maddening. His profits were cut from forty thousand to twenty-five thousand, and he was reminding himself that fifteen thousand was a lot of money.
He stopped brooding as a figure darkened the doorway.
“Ha! Come in, Mannering, come in. Glad to see you.”
Mannering, immaculate and polished as ever, entered the office, shook hands with his lordship, inquired after her ladyship, and accepted a suggestion that he should dine at Langford Terrace that evening.
Under the warming influence of Mannering’s flattery Lord Fauntley confided that he had been stung by some darned cheap-jack of a broker, but, by Jove, he’
d be more careful in the future. Then he succeeded in forcing his worries away, and chuckled.
“Still laying heavily on the winners, Mannering?”
Mannering smiled at his lordship’s eagerness.
“I was on Tanamount yesterday,” he said, “doubled with Portia. But I really came to see you about the stones, Fauntley.”
Fauntley swallowed hard. Some thirty years before he had been a clerk in the offices of a Greenwich bookmaker, whose heaviest stakes had rarely topped the hundred pounds. By unquestioned shrewdness he had climbed the backs of the masses to become a financial power, but in many ways he retained the outlook of his early days. He was unable to comprehend the coolness of Mannering in the face of sub-stantial wins and — so far as the peer could see — only occasional losses. Mannering’s nonchalance was a thing that Fauntley discussed at any and every opportunity. “An astonishing fellow. Money doesn’t matter with him. Ever met him? Come along to my daughter’s Carnival Ball — you’ll find Mannering there.” Or, to his wife: “Amazing fellow, Mannering. Fascinating. And — business with pleasure, m’dear — I think that idea of a ball is a good one. It’s time Lorna took a little interest in her old father, and a lot of people will come: surprising how much can be done at a time like that. Mannering will draw them.”
Very often Mannering told himself that he could not have a better publicity-agent, and there was an ironical gleam in his eyes when he wondered what Fauntley’s reaction would be if the peer knew just what he was doing.
“Stones?” echoed his lordship, breaking across Mannering’s thoughts.
Mannering nodded, as he proffered cigarettes.
“Yes. I’ve heard that the Lubitz diamonds will be in the market within a week or two, and . . .”
“Lubitz !” Lord Fauntley’s eyes glittered. “My heavens, Mannering, but the Lubitz collection and the Gabrienne collection would be — would be unique, unique ! You’re sure of this?”
“So sure that I thought of buying them,” said Mannering.
The peer’s face dropped ludicrously.
“Ha! Of course. I’d forgotten you collect. Yes. Well, you won’t go far wrong with the Lubitz diamonds, that’s certain enough.”
“But,” said Mannering, frowning a little, “I’m more anxious to get the Gembolt sapphires, and I was thinking . . .”
He stopped, as Lord Fauntley’s lips tightened.
The Gembolt sapphires, Fauntley knew, were up for offer at the Garton Sale Rooms, at an auction to be held on the following morning. He, Fauntley, had them in his pocket, since money was tight, and he expected to get them for five or six thousand. But if anyone — Mannering, for instance — was going to bid against him, it would be a different matter.
“I was thinking,” Mannering went on, “that if you give me the first refusal of the sapphires I’ll see that you get the first chance of the Lubitz collection.”
“You will?” Fauntley’s eyes sparkled. “But that’s damned good of you, Mannering, damned good! I’ll keep away from the Gembolts. Go and get them.”
Mannering smiled, and picked up his hat and gloves from the table. If Lord Fauntley could have read the working of the mind behind that smile his own would have been blasted from his face.
Jimmy Randall preferred Somerset to London, but he visited London occasionally, always making a point of seeing Toby Plender. Recently the mutual topic had been John Mannering. On the morning of the 9th of October — the date of the Fauntley Carnival Ball at the Five Arts Hall,
Kensington — the topic was still Mannering, but it was viewed more cheerfully and more philosophically than before.
“It amounts to this,” said Plender. “He’s found a winning slant, and he’s following it blindly. I don’t mean horses only; I don’t even mean the tables, although I’ve heard rumours that he’s been doing well at Denver’s Club and one or two private salons. But he’s touched two or three things like the Klobber Diamonds, and . . .”
“In other words,” said Randall cheerfully, “he’s turned his five thousand into fifty, and he can go to hell at his own pace.”
Plender laughed, making his face more like Punch than ever.
“I suppose so. I think he must have had something up his sleeve all the time, Jimmy. Anyhow, if you want to borrow anything, try J.M.”
“Let’s go and drink his health,” said Randall. “Y’know, I think if Marie Overndon had the chance now she’d take it.”
“Let Marie Overndon,” said Plender amiably, “go to perdition. She very nearly . . .”
He broke off abruptly, for one of the first faces he saw as he entered the Junior Carlton was Mannering’s. Mannering waved and moved towards them.
“This,” he said cheerfully, “must be the seventh postmortem in as many months. Are you eating or just drinking?”
“We might eat,” said Toby Plender.
“Idea,” said Kimmy Randall.
“I’ve got a table,” said John Mannering.
The flash of his white teeth against his dark skin, the glint of his hazel eyes, the grace of his lithe body as he moved towards the grill-room of the Junior Carlton, were parts of the Mannering of old, the Mannering of money. The thoughts in his mind were strange and mixed, tinged with a grim humour, coloured by a new devilry and a new purpose.
At that time John Mannering was reputed to be wealthy beyond ordinary measure. While his balance at a certain bank was low, it was well known that he used several banks. While no broker had bought substantially for him in any shares, Klobber Diamonds or others, it was known that he operated through many brokers. While no jewel-merchant had sold him gems of exceptional value, it was known that he traded with many merchants — also, it was rumoured, through Lord Fauntley. Billy Tricker, hearing reports of Mannering’s exceptional winnings on the turf, was glad that he had taken his lucky bets elsewhere. Tricker, being a philosophical bookie, knew that his turn would come.
At that time John Mannering’s assets were one thousand and fifty pounds, an idea that had grown into an obsession now, a belief in his ability to work the idea, and the love of Lorna Fauntley, of which he was unaware.
No one knew, no one dreamed, that they would soon be meeting the Baron. When the gentleman’s exploits grew famous or notorious, according to the point of view, no one dreamed that John Mannering was the Baron.
CHAPTER SIX
RUMOURS AND CRIMES
DETECTIVE-INSPECTOR WILLIAM BRISTOW WAS A LARGE-BONED man of medium height and middle age. He had spent twenty-five years in the Force — excepting, of course, for four years in Flanders — and those years were beginning to show in the grey of his grizzled hair and the lines in the corners of his eyes. Apart from those two signs he might have been twenty-eight, not forty-eight. His back was as straight as a rod, his stomach flat, his biceps passably hard, even when relaxed, and his eyes, flinty grey beneath almost white brows, were as keen and shrewd as ever. His lips smiled less often, perhaps, but his eyes laughed more.
At times he was called the Philosopher, because he appeared to let nothing worry him. At other times he was called the Posh William, because he dressed fastidiously, and wore a button-hole on every possible occasion. At other times still he was called the Mug, because every Commissioner selected him for the most difficult, tiring, intricate, and unlikely problems. The imagination of his fellow-officers — and subordinates — at Scotland Yard was not, then, as fertile nor as subtle as it might have been.
There was one compensation, however. Certain members of the fraternity that takes its pleasures and earns its living at the expense of more orderly members of society revealed greater subtlety by calling him Old Bill.
It might have been possible for them to have selected a man more antithetical of Bairnsfather’s creation, but few people would have believed it. Bristow’s face was square, tight-skinned, and alert, while his moustache was a neat military-cum-Colman attachment. Bristow fingered it a great deal, as though endeavouring to remove the yellow stains of nicotine that soiled
the greyness of it. By habit he smoked cigarettes heavily, drank beer a little and spirits usually by invitation, and shaved night and morning when the trials of his job permitted. The thirty-seven housewives who lived in Gretham Street, Chelsea — excluding his own wife — believed that he was a commercial traveller. He had two sons approaching maturity and a daughter of fifteen. Perhaps one of the most significant things about him was that he adored his wile.
One morning in the August of 1936 Old Bill walked rapidly along Mile End Road, acknowledging an occasional friendly grin from the enemy who were at times his friends, frowning, wishing for winter — or at least for a temperature below seventy-five degrees — and confounding the Dowager Countess of Kenton.
The Countess had lost an emerald brooch valued at seven hundred and fifty pounds. That had been on the Monday, three days before this visit of the Inspector’s to Limehouse. At ten o’clock on the night of the loss she had telephoned Scotland Yard to lodge her complaint, and, allowing for the six hours she apparently slept at night, she had telephoned Scotland Yard every other hour afterwards.
The theft had been a neat one, but not exceptionally clever. During a dance — the Dowager had an unattached daughter — the lights had been cut off for thirty seconds, and the brooch had been snatched from the Dowager’s corsage. Before she had stopped screaming the lights had been switched on again, whereat she had fainted, and no one had kept a cool head in the ensuing confusion.
A ladder leading to the windows at the rear of No. 7 Portland Square revealed the means of ingress, an unconscious housekeeper near the electric-main switch — which in turn was near the window — revealed the burglar’s preparedness to use violence, and the fact that no one of the party had switched the light on again proved the raider, who must have done it himself, to have been of unusual daring and nerve.
The detective liked nerve, and, knowing that the house-keeper was not badly hurt, was amused. On the third day he disliked the Dowager so much that he was disappointed when Levy Schmidt, a pawnbroker in the Mile End Road, telephoned him to say that a client had tried to pass the Kenton brooch. That is to say, the human element in the detective was disappointed; the official element was pleased.