The Baron Again

by John Creasey

  “I’ve a reputation to keep, Kate, we mustn’t forget that.”

  The Cat tossed her yellow head back contemptuously.

  “Sure, and Lorna! Well, it’s up to you, but listen, Mannering. If you get in a spot and have to flit, you’ll find me sometimes at the Cafe Louise, near the Opera House, Paris,” she added as an afterthought. “Don’t forget.”

  Mannering stood up. “I won’t, I promise you.”

  “I bet you won’t.” She laughed, and then her expression changed, she looked anxious. “Now scram. Kulper isn’t watching me tonight, he thinks I’m too scared to creep away. You’re all right down below. O.K.”

  “It’s damned difficult to say thanks,” said Mannering awkwardly.

  “Not so hard.” She came up to him, gripping his coat, and forced her face upwards, the lips pushed forward a little, a sparkle of allure in her eyes. Mannering kissed her lightly, and then turned away.

  The door closed behind him with a sharp click, and for several minutes afterwards the Cat sat back on the divan, her eyes brooding, that mocking, twisted smile on her ripe red lips.

  Mannering had time to call at Portland Place to see Lorna, before going on to Clarges Street. He telephoned Leverson again, but refused to tell the fence what he had learned from the Cat. Leverson had put himself in too much danger already, and the coming finale was for the Baron alone.

  There was one thing that gave him some pleasure. As Mannering, he had had no message from Kulper. Despite the photographs, Kulper did not know the Baron was John Mannering. He would find out in time, of course, if the Baron allowed him to act.

  At half-past six Mannering left his flat. As he turned into the street he heard a familiar snorting roar. Peter Lake’s car drew up; Peter braked hard and noisily, and waved a hand. Mannering stepped up to the kerb, smiling.

  “So the suicide trap works again, does it?”

  “Surprising what you can do if you try,” said Peter. “By the way, I haven’t thanked you properly for that cheque. I’ll see you get it at the end of the month, pronto. The Mater is tight-fisted at times, and she isn’t taking it kindly that I’m voting for Marion.”

  “Don’t let it worry you,” said Mannering, “and there’s no hurry. No softening of the maternal bosom?”

  “As a matter of fact,” said Lake soberly, “she’s getting pretty vicious about Marion. If the kid ever comes back, I fancy she’ll have a hell of a life.”

  “Marion can look after herself,” Mannering said with conviction, “and you say she’s plenty of money?”

  Lake pulled a face.

  “We-ell—that’s part of the trouble. Damnable thing to say about one’s own parent, even foster,” said Peter awkwardly, “but you know the income isn’t just my mother’s own. Marion’s capital’s in trust. The interest helps mother until Marion’s twenty-five. Well, that’s all right as far as it goes, hut if Marion breaks with the Mater, down go the family finances. Doesn’t affect me much, because I get damn-all from her, anyhow. Luckily there was a spot of cash tied on when I was adopted.” Lake was perspiring, and he pushed his handkerchief over his short, upstanding hair. Mannering could understand that he disliked this job, and appreciated the fact that Lake was talking frankly. It might mean a lot.

  Gertrude Willison had been set dead against Halliwell apparently from the moment marriage was talked of, and that was interesting. She might even be interested in getting Halliwell hanged.

  “Let’s get it straight,” Mannering said, with one foot on the running-board of the Talbot. “Mrs. Willison got something for looking after you, and more for taking care of Marion?”

  “Ye-es. She—er—had a rough spell when she was younger, you know. Father and husband went smash in some crazy scheme. Husband committed suicide. Mother made a living by adopting youngsters and—er—you see what I’m driving at?”

  “You’re saying that if Marion doesn’t go back to her aunt, Mrs. Willison’s income will stop?”

  Lake stared.

  “Good God, no! Mater’s got the purse strings. Trustee and all that. You know, with Alder and Craythorne. Can do what she likes with it until Marion’s twenty-five. Goes to Marion afterwards, but as for the quantity, well, capital has been lost before.”

  “Here, steady,” protested Mannering. “I didn’t know Marion’s father, but no one would be fool enough not to protect the capital. First you say Mrs. Willison lives on the interest—”

  “And then that she’s got control of the capital,” said Lake. “Well, she has, with the solicitors. Now old Alder’s been round to the house a lot lately, and there’s something hatching. The Mater’s going to send an ultimatum to Marion, to come back, or—”

  Mannering was looking more thoughtful than ever.

  “Threats and ultimatums, eh? I’ll get Plender to look up the legal side of it. You know what you’re hinting at, Peter?”

  “Well, I’ve got an idea,” said Lake dejectedly. “Pretty swinish, but after all it’s Marion’s money, and if she’s in love with the feller, murderer or not—”

  “Halliwell didn’t kill Kingley,” said Mannering sharply, “and I think I can prove it in forty-eight hours. If you’re not talking out of the back of your neck, there’s some funny business with Mrs. Willison. Try and get the hang of it, will you, by the morning?”

  “I’ll try, but no guarantees. As I’ve said, I’m not altogether popular. As a matter of fact I know she’ll ask me to put the proposition up to Marion, whatever it is. And a condition will be that she cuts Halliwell.”

  “Don’t tell the girl about it until you’ve seen me,” said Mannering, and then he laughed shortly. “Sorry, I’m getting dictatorial. But I think it would be happier if we had a chat about it first.”

  “Good Lord, yes! Exactly my idea,” said Peter Lake more cheerfully. “Well, I’ve a date, and thanks to your fifty I can keep it. Things were looking black, because I’d pretty nearly spun out, and they’re not fond of credit accounts at the court.”

  “My fault,” smiled Mannering. “I didn’t get that word in with the Divisional, but you deserved a lesson, anyhow. That youngster any the worse?”

  “No, thank God. Called round on her folk this morning, and she’s as fit as a fiddle. Didn’t even recognise me. Well, can I give you a lift?”

  “I doubt if another attempted suicide would get me inside that rattle-trap again,” said Mannering, and Lake chuckled as he let in the clutch.

  “All right, but put a fiver on her on Saturday. Third race at Brooklands. A safe bet, and you’ll get tens. So long! Mum’s the word about the financial juggling with Marion, of course.”

  “For both of us,” nodded Mannering.

  He walked towards Piccadilly, and hailed the first taxi that passed, as the racer roared and snorted at the other end of the street. He still had a quarter of an hour, but he wanted to be at Wardour Street early, for the meeting with Jackson.

  Lake’s garbled story made him thoughtful. There was something that he had not told Mannering, either because he had confused it, or because of a dislike of putting the thing badly. On the surface Gertrude Willison was going to try and blackmail Marion into deserting Brian Halliwell, and the woman was certainly capable of trying to exert pressure. But why was she so hostile to the youngster?

  Mannering knew the girl well enough to know her aunt would lose, and he was puzzled. Judging logically, it would be to her advantage to be friendly with the girl. The capital was Marion’s if only in trust.

  “I’m not so sure,” thought Mannering, aloud. “Damn you, Peter, I wanted a clear head tonight.”

  The cab pulled up at the Corner House. Mannering gave the driver ten shillings and told him to wait outside the Rial to. Then he stationed himself behind an evening paper, as the crowd pressed to and fro.

  His heart thumped when he saw his quarry. Jackson was driving a small Singer sports car, and he parked in Wardour Street. He waited impatiently, staring every few seconds at his watch. At ten past seven his lips moved,
as though in a curse, and he walked into the Corner House. Mannering watched him go into a telephone booth, and guessed he was telephoning Kulper.

  Jackson left the booth three minutes later and went straight to his car. Mannering climbed into the taxi, after a muttered: “Keep the little Singer in sight.”

  They started off quickly, going towards Leicester Square, round Trafalgar Square, along Whitehall to Westminster Bridge. On the far side of the bridge Jackson turned right, towards Lambeth, while Mannering sat back in the cab, trying to keep his nerves steady. Before long, with luck, he would know where Kulper lived.

  Chapter Twenty-Five

  Kulper at Home

  The setting sun was bathing the wide stretches of the Thames in a deep red glow by the Houses of Parliament, lending the stream of cars along the road, the hundreds of pedestrians and the buildings on the Lambeth side, the same deep richness. It was dazzling on the polished panels of Jackson’s Singer, and twice Mannering believed that he had lost his quarry, but the cabby held on.

  Jackson had taken a turning nearly opposite Lambeth Bridge, and taxis in the side streets of that squalid part of London were things of interest, and Mannering was desperately anxious to create no suspicions. The Singer pulled across the road without the formality of a signal, and as the cabby swerved to avoid it he roared a hoarse volley of abuse at Jackson. Jackson would never dream the cabby was deliberately following him, after that.

  The man shouted a retort, and a moment later he saw Jackson’s indicator go out, as though turning left or slowing down. With a praiseworthy speed the cabby swung his wheel, making his turn in one complete sweep, and getting well after the Singer.

  It was parked fifty yards off the main road, and as the cab bowled past it, Mannering saw Jackson entering the middle house of three built together. They were tall and drab, distinguished only because the neighbouring houses were little more than hovels. On the other side of the road were tall warehouses, with torn advertising posters fluttering in a slight evening breeze.

  The sun, shining between two warehouses, lit the top of the houses and left the lower walls gloomy and grim. As Mannering looked at it he was filled with a sense of depression, almost hopelessness.

  The cabby leaned back.

  “Anythink more, sir?”

  “Turn at the first corner, so that I can keep the house in sight,” Mannering said.

  The man obeyed as though used to receiving similar orders and, turning his cab abruptly, placed Mannering so that he could easily keep the house under observation.

  Mannering’s heart was beating faster, and his depression was easing. Here was vitally important work to do, and there was no time to worry about premonitions.

  It was twenty-five past seven, and it was reasonably certain that he could not break into the house until after dark – about half-past eight. It might be only a port of call for Jackson, and there was no guarantee yet that Kulper was on the premises. With Kulper went the photographs.

  Mannering studied the front windows, professionally. There were four stories, with two windows on each floor, long, narrow, and with walls decorated with heavy window-sills and granite pillars. Ugly to the eye, but excellent for Mannering’s purpose if he had to climb them. Yet in full view of the street, such a project seemed impossible.

  Impatiently he offered the cabby a cigarette, and: “I’ll be back in ten minutes, but if the man in the Singer comes out again, follow him and when you’ve finished, be at the Rialto again. Clear?”

  “Right, Guv’nor.” The cabby took a five-pound note without blinking an eye. Mannering nodded, smiled, and walked sharply across the road.

  There was a wide road, called Bramley Street, running on one side of the three houses, a walled alley on the other. Nearby were the unoccupied workmen’s cottages, some in the early stages of demolition. Boarded windows and paintless woodwork struck an odd contrast with the shining Singer.

  Mannering took the road, and walked as far as a second alley.

  It had a dry, cindery surface, but Mannering was more interested in the back of the house Jackson had entered. A four-foot brick wall ran round the three tall houses, and above them was barbed wire, ostensibly to keep cats out. There were three solid doors in the wall, all of them closed; and all had yale locks.

  Mannering took it all in a glance. He had no desire to attract the attention of anyone glancing out of the window, and he walked sharply to the end of the road before turning along a side street and making for the corner where he had his cab.

  A forced entry seemed easy enough by the back way.

  The houses themselves might be four-storied, but at the back were single-story wash-houses. Once he was through the gates he could climb on to the wash-house roofs, and then through a window.

  At the corner he did not see the cab, and his heart missed a beat. Had Jackson left?

  He laughed to himself as he found that he had come out at a different corner, and hurried towards the cabby fifty yards along the road. The man was sitting still with his fat arms folded over his wheel, and his glasses half way down his nose. As Mannering arrived he spoke out of the side of his mouth, without looking one way or the other.

  “Nothing yet, sir. I—blimey, just in time, ’ere ’e comes!” Mannering’s heart leapt; luck was working with him. He stepped into the cab as Jackson walked from the middle house. The cabby was up to all likely tricks, and had passed the Singer before it had moved away. Jackson looked neither right nor left, and there seemed to be no one watching from the windows.

  Mannering sat back, his mind alert.

  He had seen enough of his driver to be sure that the man would keep on the trail, and his one hope was that Jackson would not go out to Barnet. The chase led towards the City, and just twenty minutes after the start of the run, Mannering was sitting back in his cab in bewilderment. Jackson had gone to 5a, Graffley Street, the home of Mrs. Gertrude Willison.

  Mannering had hardly time to assimilate this new discovery, or to go through the awkward hints that Peter Lake had given him. It had seemed impossible that Gertrude Willison could have anything to do with the affair, yet this seemed conclusive evidence.

  Jackson was in the house less than five minutes. He was either a fool, or too worried to observe much, for he did not glance a second time at the cab that passed him in exactly the same way as it had at Lambeth.

  Half afraid that the run would be straight back to Kulper’s house, Mannering waited on tenterhooks, but Jackson went towards Oxford Street, and turned down Edgware Road at Marble Arch. His car pulled into one of the wide squares leading to the left, with small gardens in the middle, and houses as tall and old as that of Kulper’s on either side. He stopped half-way down the street and, leaving the engine running, hurried up a short flight of stone steps.

  Mannering thought swiftly.

  Jackson did not propose to be long, or he would have stopped the engine. Mannering told the cabby to pull in, and jumped down.

  “Turn round, fast. Keep your sign up, and if our man wants a cab, let him get in, whether I’m in or not. If I’m not, let me get on board.”

  The driver did not point out that he was breaking several by-laws, but went off quickly. Mannering took a small, sharp-pointed awl from his pocket – he was carrying tools in case of an emergency job – and walked to the Singer. He stabbed through the cover of the nearest front tyre three times, heard the air hissing out and jumped round for the taxi. By the time he had come level with the Singer, Jackson was out of the house and in the car. It moved a few yards before Mannering saw Jackson’s expression change as he climbed out to investigate. Jackson turned at once, and his face lighted as he saw the taxi. Crouching in the far corner, Mannering waited tensely as the driver pulled alongside the Singer, and Jackson snapped an order: “Bramley Street, Lambeth. Know it?”

  “Yessir.” The cabby was perfect, obviously bent on a substantial reward.

  Jackson climbed in and the cabby banged the door behind him. At the same moment Ma
nnering shot his right hand out, jerking Jackson off his balance. There was a cry of alarm, Mannering saw Jackson’s sallow face twisted in fear, and then he took his gas-pistol from his pocket. It was a couple of inches from the man’s nose.

  “See this, Jackson?”

  Jackson could see the gun, although he could not get the face of the gunman clearly. Mannering’s left hand was gripping the other’s wrist, and not gently.

  “Y-yes!”

  “Good,” said Mannering. “When I tell you I’m the Baron you’ll know why I want you.”

  Jackson looked scared out of his life. His womanish lips were trembling, and his body was shaking.

  “I—I—”

  Mannering cut across the words sharply.

  “I’ll ask questions, Jackson. I know Kulper’s at Bramley Street. Is that his home?”

  “Ye-es.” Jackson’s voice was barely audible.

  “Has he got the photographs there?”

  “Oh—God!”

  “Has he?” There was something in the tense voice of the Baron that would have struck fear into a stronger man than Jackson, and the other nodded wildly.

  “Yes, yes, all of them! I’m to be there at half-past eight, someone—someone knows your real name, we’re going to get at you—”

  Mannering’s eyes narrowed, but he lost no time pondering over that discovery, although it flashed through his mind that Kate Loffatt knew him as Mannering, and to the best of his knowledge none of the other Kulper organisation did. Had the woman scorned been dangerous after all?

  “All right—who’s the someone?”

  “I—I don’t know!”

  “Man or woman?”

  “I don’t know, I tell you!” Jackson was frantic, glaring round as the cab swung round by Hyde Park. “Let me out of here, let me—”

  Mannering lifted his gun a little, and held his breath. The ether-gas squirted full into Jackson’s unsuspecting face. It acted promptly, and Mannering pulled him on to the seat next to him, making sure of unconsciousness with chloroform. As Jackson slumped down he tapped on the glass. Half way along Park Lane the cab stopped.