by John Creasey
The man in thigh-high waders leaned over and lifted the unconscious crook out of the boat. Mannering heard the woman laugh, saw her head a little on one side and looking at him mockingly.
“You’ll have to get wet, maybe you can carry me?”
“It’ll be a job,” retorted the Baron.
He lifted her off her feet quickly, and stepped over the bows clumsily but keeping his balance. The Cat did not move in his arms until he reached the bank, and then very deliberately she pressed her lips against his.
“I’ve got to get something,” she said, and laughed when she lifted her head away, and the Baron put her down. He was taking cigarettes out of his pocket, without making any effort to get the water out of his shoes and trousers.
“I don’t know whether I’m safer here, or back at Eldred’s,” he said as she took a cigarette.
“Think I’m dangerous?”
“Sure of it. Eldred’s was safer, probably, but I’ll chance it. Other things apart, I’m damnably grateful.”
“But you don’t want to pay too much for it, eh?” She was laughing at him, and in that light she was overpoweringly good to look at. The Baron deliberately turned towards the launch, saw Leverson climbing into another boat, and sat on the running board of the larger car, to squeeze the water from his trousers.
“The Baron,” he said, “has some morals. Taking a lot and giving a little is included. But supposing we defer the argument?”
“Maybe,” said the Cat lightly, “you’ll ask Lady Lorna’s permission.”
“She’s like you,” said the Baron, “very broad-minded. Joking apart, Kate—”
“Again? “
“Damn you,” said the Baron, and he was relieved when Leverson appeared.
There was still no sound or sign of pursuit, and the Baron climbed into the larger car. Leverson sat at the back with Kulper. The Cat sat next to Mannering, leaning back and smoking. As Mannering let in the clutch and eased off the brakes, sending the car forward, he was conscious of her steady gaze.
“Left or right?”
“Left.” It was Leverson. “Then right at the cross-roads, first left, and you’re on the Kingston Road. You’ll know it from there.”
“Thanks,” said Mannering.
There was no need for him to ask what the other men were doing. They would put the launch safely into anchorage, and then get back to town in the second car. Leverson had left nothing to chance, and as the Austin turned into the main road he saw two other late motorists in the distance, their powerful headlights dimmed a little by the brilliant moon. He felt really safe for the first time. In his pocket he had a handful or more of Eldred’s diamonds: and at his side was Kate Loffatt, who was a little more than the Baron had expected, and who might do incalculable things. He hoped there would be no trouble with her, but he was worried by the steady regard with which she watched him, and he pressed hard on the accelerator.
A small fortune in stones, Kulper a prisoner, Greene and perhaps others of Kulper’s men in the hands of the police by now, at Eldred’s house. Against that the Baron had been seen, and the Yard would learn of it soon. The old hue and cry would start, the Baron would be able to do nothing without first dodging the police, and there was more than his freedom hanging on it this time: there was Brian Halliwell’s life.
Well, he might get what he wanted from Kulper.
The Cat had said that Kulper had denied murdering Kingley. That might have been the truth, although he would set less store on the truthfulness of Kulper in the future. Whether he forced a confession or merely obtained more facts to work on hardly mattered at the moment. He had to make sure that the police could not get him for the River House burglary, before anything else.
It was all in the game.
He had known he would stand a chance of losing against them, and he was prepared to trust his wits to beat the police. He had managed it before, sometimes with luck and sometimes because it had been on the cards: but this time there was something that he could not fight against, if they were put in operation against him.
The photographs.
Kulper would have the negatives, but were there other prints available? Could Greene give one to the police? If he could, thought Mannering, there was only one thing to do: get out of the country as fast as possible.
He drove silently, without speaking, his chin set and his eyes narrowed. The Cat was forgotten in the knowledge of the emergency that might face him, and he was desperately anxious to talk to Kulper.
Chapter Twenty-One
Hue and Cry
Mannering made for London through Putney and Fulham, and as Leverson’s Austin Six ran along New King’s Road, the Cat broke a silence that had lasted for twenty minutes.
“What’s in your mind, Baron?”
Mannering hesitated: he knew what she was thinking, and he did not want to accept her unspoken invitation. He was reluctant to offend the Cat in any way. Although Leverson had called him Mannering several times, and the woman must know his real name, she studiously refrained from using it. Yet he was worried; it was no time for risking the reactions of a woman scorned.
The Cat laughed at his hesitation, and Leverson leaned over the back of the seats.
“We must have somewhere to keep Kulper. Your flat won’t do, Kate. When the police find Greene they’ll go to you immediately they know you’re acquainted. You’d better get out here, and walk to Lee Street from the end of Wandsworth Bridge Road. You’re not likely to be seen.”
“We can’t risk that,” protested Mannering quickly.
The Cat patted his knee.
“Don’t get worried, Sir Galahad, I’m used to night jaunts, and I’ll make it. The next turning on the right, there’s a boy.” She paused as Mannering saw the turning and went towards it, and then spoke sharply to Leverson. “Do I know where you’re taking Kulper?”
“Benny’s place, I hope.”
“I’ll be seeing you,” she said. “Don’t get out.”
She opened the door quickly, and was in the road before Mannering could move from the wheel. Under a street lamp he saw the flash of red lips and white teeth. Then she turned and was walking quickly away from the main road, swaying from the hips. Leverson sounded amused.
“Don’t worry about her, John.”
“The woman scorned,” said Mannering thoughtfully.
“She’s a philosopher in her way, and she’ll try again, but she won’t hold anything against you. But don’t try to pay her for tonight’s show in hard cash. That might make her scratch.”
“Well, well!” exclaimed Mannering. “I’m getting an education in earnest these days. So she won’t take money.”
“Not from you, when she’s offered her services. I like Kate,” added Leverson frankly, “but I know her tricks. Now let’s forget her. You’ve heard of Benny’s place?”
“It’s a pub near you, isn’t it?”
“Yes, a couple of hundred yards from Wine Street. I spoke to Benny at the Unicorn before I came out, and he’ll be waiting. But I didn’t realise that you’d have company, and he might not like keeping Kulper. If he doesn’t we’ll have to try to find someone else.”
“What made you talk to Benny?”
“You’ll need somewhere to change, and it isn’t wise to go to Wine Street.”
Mannering nodded, satisfied, and they did not speak again as they drove through the deserted streets of London. Leverson had neglected nothing, and the more the Baron thought round the situation the more he appreciated the luck that had been with him, and the value of his friendship with Leverson. He wondered whether the fence was right in attributing the Cat’s interest to the fact that she had promised silence but had been forced to break it, or whether she was personally interested in the Baron, as Mannering.
They reached Aldgate an hour after leaving the launch. Mannering’s feet were still cold and damp, and he was looking forward to a change. It would be damnable if Benny should refuse to look after Kulper for twenty-four hours, for the scar-faced
crook had to be left somewhere within easy distance, safe both from the police and his own associates.
There was no light burning at the Unicorn, on the corner of Aldgate High Street and a small alley that led to Wine Street in one direction, and Middlesex Street in another. There seemed no one about, and Mannering looked wearily at the dark windows of the public-house.
Leverson reached the side door, and opened it with a key.
“Fetch Kulper, quickly.”
Suddenly light-hearted, Mannering turned round. First making sure that no one was in sight, he lifted Kulper’s body from the floor of the car. Leverson held the pub door open, and for the first time Mannering saw a glow of light at the end of the passage.
The door closed, and as the lock clicked a coarse Cockney voice came sharply through the silence.
“What’s that? A stiff?”
“I hope not,” said Leverson, and against the light Mannering could see the silhouette of the man Benny.
Benny Lesser was a thin, spidery man, with a gaunt face and a lantern jaw. He was always chewing, and as he turned and led the way to the room at the end of the passage the Baron could see his jaws moving steadily. He made no comment, until Mannering let Kulper down into an easy chair, and sat on the edge of it.
A pair of bright brown eyes seemed to search him through. Benny Lesser pushed the chewing gum or tobacco from one cheek to the other, and spat into the fireplace.
“Who’s the yob, Flick?”
“A friend of mine,” said Leverson, and Mannering needed no more telling that the fence was quite capable of handling the situation. Leverson simply took a wallet from his pocket and began to take out pound notes. “Recognise the little man, Benny?”
“Nope.”
“I want you to look after him for a couple of days.”
“Is ’e ’ot?” asked Benny, shifting the cud and spitting again. The little room which served as a back parlour was squalid, and furnished at least twenty years behind the times.
“Hot as can be,” admitted Leverson frankly. “He’s been down to Eldred’s house, at Staines, and I want to talk with him later.”
“Now listen, Flick, you know as ’ow I don’t touch the ’ot ’uns. It ain’t worth the risk—”
“This one is,” said Leverson. He pushed notes into the man’s hand, and turned round as though everything was signed and settled. Mannering, trying not to interest himself too much in the negotiations between the two, had been feeling Kulper’s pulse. It was beating faintly, and he knew the little crook would need attention soon. His head had smashed against the wall of the anteroom, and blood had matted his hair.
“Where shall I put him?” Leverson went on calmly.
“In the hattic, I s’pose, but it ain’t right,” grumbled Benny, while Mannering tried to hide a smile of relief. “I ain’t been on the wrong side for ten years, Flick, an’ if yer git me up for a stretch—”
“You’ll be all right,” said Leverson. “We’ll have him out before the police think of looking here.” He turned towards the door opposite that through which they had entered, and winked at the Baron. “Straight up. There’s a single room on the top floor, good enough for him, I reckon.”
Mannering nodded. He was feeling tired, and for a moment he had difficulty in getting his muscles together and lifting the man. He started unsteadily towards the door, and surprisingly Benny stepped forward.
“’Ere, gimme.”
Mannering relinquished his burden gladly. With Leverson he followed the spidery Benny up the stairs, and was astonished by the ease with which the little innkeeper tackled Kulper’s weight. Once they were in the attic, a long narrow room converted from a loft, Benny turned, spat once into a corner, and went downstairs.
“Let yerselves art,” he said. “I gotta be up at six, I ’ave. So long, mate.”
Mannering smiled, and offered his hand. Benny’s grip was unexpectedly firm, and for the first time a grin followed a scowl.
“O.K., Boss.”
“Thanks a lot,” said Mannering.
“You don’t ’ave to worry, the dicks won’t find ’im ’ere.” Benny nodded and shuffled out of the room, as Leverson stepped to Kulper’s side.
“You’ll find some tennis shoes in the corner, John, but I can’t run to trousers. I’ll look after Kulper while you get cleaned up and off. You’ll ring me in the morning?”
Mannering hesitated.
“Ye-es. Unless it gets too hot. Flick. If Greene can find one of those photographs, I’m through.”
Leverson stared.
Mannering realised that the other had not considered that possibility. He had known the Baron outwit Bristow a dozen times, and there was a compliment in his assumption that the cracksman could do it again, but that photograph was damning evidence.
“Damn it, Mannering, that’s a swine!”
Mannering forced a smile he did not feel.
“I’ll get to my Barnes place. There’s plenty of stuff there for a disguise, and I can watch events from there. You’re sure of Benny?”
“Ye-es,” Leverson said.
Mannering detected a note of doubt, but he did not enlarge on it. There would be time to worry about that in the morning, after he learned what Greene had reported to the police. It did not occur to him that the florid-faced crook might have escaped.
“Fine,” he said with forced heartiness. “We’re doing well, Flick, but who’s going to look after the loot?” He quizzed the other as he pulled several stones from his pocket and Leverson smiled in spite of his gravity.
“You don’t miss much, John! I’ll cover it—how much did you collect?”
“A pocketful,” said Mannering, suddenly cheerful again. He emptied his pockets of the stones from Eldred’s vault, knowing that Leverson would pay well for all of them: Leverson was one of the most trustworthy men of his acquaintance. Then, fifteen minutes after he had entered the Unicorn, he climbed back into the Austin. Leverson was going to walk home, a matter of two hundred yards.
At Lune’s, an all-night garage near Piccadilly, Mannering – still slightly disguised, and reasonably sure that he would not be recognised – garaged the car under complaint, and hired a Morris Ten in exchange. He felt reasonably cheerful but extremely tired when he reached Lanchester Street, Barnes, and after putting the car in the garage at the side of the house he let himself in with a key. Moving as silently as possible, in order not to disturb his housekeeper, he left a note on the hall table to say that he was in, and asking for a call at nine o’clock. Then he locked himself in the room.
He was no longer the Baron, nor John Mannering: he was Mr. James L. Miller, that commercial traveller of Barnes. But as he dropped asleep quickly, from sheer fatigue, he wondered whether Mannering or the Baron would ever appear again. What would Greene say? What evidence could he offer?
At a quarter past two Mannering was asleep. At a quarter past eight he awakened, with a heavy head, and tired eyes. He forced himself to look at the small clock on the table by his bed, scowled, grunted, and jerked himself to a sitting position. His head was thumping hard, a blinding pain ran across his eyes.
Before he dared call his housekeeper, he had to make-up as Miller. In a locked drawer in his dressing table was a case containing all that he needed by way of disguise. Hardly able to keep his eyes open, Mannering made up, using the cheek pads and the rubber covering for his teeth. In ten minutes he was presentable enough, and he rang for Mrs. Lloyd.
She came promptly, as she always did.
A tall, angular woman who had more than a trace of Victorianism, she seemed to disapprove of her middle-aged employer, and she had never made the slightest attempt at conversation. Mannering had rarely been more glad of her silence.
“’Morning, Mrs. Lloyd. Coffee, black and hot, please.”
“Very good, sir.”
“And put it on the table please, I’m going to have a bath,” said Mannering.
“I’ve put the towels out, sir.”
Manne
ring nodded, clutched a dressing-gown about him – he kept a full wardrobe at the Barnes house – and took a quick, cold bath. It refreshed him a little, but he disliked using greasepaint again.
When he reached the bedroom the coffee was on a tray, and next to it the Daily Wire, neatly folded.
Mannering stared at the paper, resisted the temptation to open it before he had taken coffee, and took the drink as black as he could. It was hot and strong, and it did him good. He munched a biscuit, followed with two aspirins and another cup of coffee, and then stretched out a steady hand for the Wire.
What story would the Press run?
He opened it out to the front page slowly, his heart thumping. Above all things he dreaded to see a photograph like that which the Cat had shown him. If Greene had one and had given it to the police, it would be there.
He saw a photograph, and his heart dropped sickeningly.
Then he saw that it was of Greene. The florid-faced man was wearing his pork-pie hat, and smiling: obviously it had been taken before the River House burglary, and the reporters had managed to get it from his flat.
Breathing more easily and smiling a little, Mannering paid fuller attention to the headlines.
He had expected their text, and his guess had been a good one. Stretched across the front page were letters an inch deep:
“THE BARON’S £50,000 HAUL”
and below:
“DARING ROBBERY AT STAINES “ACCOMPLICE CAUGHT
“The jewel-thief known widely as the Baron carried out the most daring theft of his career at the house of Mr. Emmanuel Eldred, at Staines, late last night. He …”
The Baron skipped it, looking for mention of the accomplice. The story was sketchy, but it would be fuller in the later papers. He read that he had shown his usual genius for lock-breaking, had been caught while working, and managed to escape against odds after using a dinghy tied to the private landing stage and cutting the other boats loose to stop pursuit. The river police had kept a wide watch for the dinghy, but it had not been located. For the first time:
“… to the knowledge of the police, the Baron used an accomplice, now under arrest. Theodore Greene was interrogated by the Staines police for two hours this morning, and was afterwards taken to Cannon Row, after a visit to Staines by Superintendent Lynch and Chief-Inspector Bristow. The Wire understands that immediate developments are expected. The police are confident that the Baron has this time made a vital mistake, and an early arrest is expected.