A Case for the Baron

by John Creasey

  “A gamekeeper.”

  “I was afraid so. There was bound to be one about. I hoped we might keep this to ourselves.”

  “We can. Our gamekeeper has an enemy, a poacher of great skill. Who but a poacher would dare to shoot on his sacrosanct land?”

  “You persuaded him that—”

  “My dear chap! He persuaded me. For a man with a deadly enemy who has just tried to drill a hole through you, you bear up well.”

  “I am used to it,” said Shayne, and brushed the subject aside. “Mannering, I’m greatly encouraged. I mean that. If you will help me, I shall feel that I’ve an even chance.”

  “I’ll help. On condition that there are no half-truths. Everything out in the open for a thorough airing. Secrets have a fusty smell and I’ve a sensitive nose.”

  “I will keep no secrets. And after tea I’ll tell you everything I can. I promise you I won’t exaggerate or minimise the facts.”

  If this went on, manna was falling into his lap, for Shayne was longing to talk, but would he tell all the truth? Mannering looked hard into those warm brown eyes, and asked, “Does anyone else at the Grange know you’re in danger?”

  “Marion has some idea, Robert none. Both know I want to discuss business with you, and that we’ve much in common.”

  Before Mannering could answer, Gertrude Cheriton called out from the French windows of the drawing room. She was frowning and chagrined, declared petulantly that she had been looking for them all afternoon. They really should not have gone out in such weather. She had so wanted to talk to Mr. Mannering, she’d been looking forward—

  “I’ll be down in two shakes,” Mannering promised.

  As they went upstairs, Shayne murmured, “I am not an impatient man, but that young woman exasperates me beyond words.”

  Was the comment significant? Or did it betray his shaken nerve?

  When Mannering entered the drawing room, Cheriton was reading a magazine, Ley was poring over a lumpy volume, from which he glanced up absently and hoped Mannering had not got too wet. Mannering submitted to Gertrude’s throaty voice for nearly an hour, glad that he needed to say little, and could safely let his thoughts roam.

  Shayne was going to put up a proposition, which would put Mannering on both sides of the fence. He might well prefer Shayne’s side; Bristow must have calculated the chances of that. There was nothing illegal about buying precious stones under cover; Shayne might ask only for introductions to sellers and buyers; or might even invite him to act as go-between, lessening his own danger.

  “And if I hadn’t insisted,” Gertrude rasped on, “I’m sure my father would not have had the patience to sit for his portrait. At least I know that Mrs. Mannering will do him justice. He’s very misunderstood. He should not be wasting his time in England or in Cairo, he should be on one of the fighting fronts. He just longs for that. I cannot understand why men of such brilliance are kept here at home, while others, untried, are on active service. In my opinion, there are a great number of mistakes made at Whitehall!”

  “Of course,” murmured Mannering.

  “And that isn’t all—”

  He was rescued by tea, when Marion and Lorna arrived. Shayne came in soon afterwards, well groomed, urbane. Ley closed his book, and made a point of talking to Gertrude, thus relieving Mannering. Ley was always considerate; but all the time he watched his wife.

  Marion scintillated; and—

  “John, do come and see my saleroom.”

  “Gladly.”

  She’ll make you fork out a fortune,” Cheriton prophesied warningly. “You keep away.”

  The ‘saleroom’ door was locked. Marion turned the key and rested a hand on his arm as they went round. The needlework and a variety of home-made decorations, flowers, handiwork, was attractively displayed and clearly priced.

  “We’ve been putting the price tickets on this afternoon, John. They love coming up here from the village. We can get the county people here, too, but they shun the village hall.”

  “Aren’t these lovely?” Marion held up some lace mats, beautifully designed. “An old lady of eighty-three has spent a year on them. She’s a pacifist, but will do anything for the Red Cross.”

  Beside the mats was other lace, exquisite and costly.

  “Bruges,” Mannering said.

  “Yes.”

  “You’ve a collection of Bruges lace, haven’t you?”

  “I’ve some left.”

  “And the Red Cross has the rest?”

  “Of course, I could give money,” said Marion. “But it isn’t quite the same. It’s less what one gives than the sacrifice one makes. Don’t think I’m moralising! One just sets an example and the others follow. I wouldn’t get half the satisfaction out of writing a cheque.”

  “No. It’s a good job, Marion.”

  She shrugged. “It’s got to be done, and I’m selfish, really. I work from here, and have all the comfort I want.”

  “And get results.” He stopped by a miniature, picked it up. “Sixteenth-century Dutch – from Bob’s collection?”

  “No. A gift from Marcus. He told me we ought to price it at a hundred and fifty pounds, but—”

  “Two hundred. And it’s mine.”

  Marion said, “Having you here has done me a world of good, John. How do you like Marcus?”

  “He’s not exactly made to measure, is he?”

  “He’s the most generous man I know, after Bob. And you, if you’re really going to buy that miniature!”

  Mannering wrapped the treasure in tissue paper and put it into his pocket. A footman came in.

  “You asked me to tell you, m’lady, when it was six o’clock.”

  “John, I’ve to telephone the vicar.” She hurried out.

  Mannering went thoughtfully upstairs. Painted faces looked at him from the walls; two suits of steel armour glowed on the landing. The Grange had a grandeur all its own.

  He found Lorna waiting. She stood up and greeted him: “Love me, darling?”

  “No.” Mannering grinned at her. “I’m disappointed in you.”

  “Haven’t I dazzled Marcus enough?”

  “You’ve misjudged Marion.” Lorna wrinkled her forehead.

  “You know, I almost agree. She’s doing a tremendous job for the Red Cross. The women who were working here this afternoon say she’s raised nearly thirty thousand pounds. And she handled them perfectly; they’re devoted to her. Did Marcus open his heart to you?”

  “He has an enemy.”

  “Any man as handsome as that must have hundreds.”

  “This one nearly put a bullet in him this afternoon.”

  Lorna moved forward slowly, looked into his eyes, closed hers as if suddenly overcome by a great weariness, and put out a hand. Mannering went quickly to her, put his arm round her shoulders, and held both her hands in one of his. After a while, she looked up at him, with a taut, tense smile.

  “Sorry, darling. I’m such a fool. I’d hoped it wouldn’t mean violence.” She swallowed hard. “Did they get very close?”

  “Too close – but the shooting loosened Shayne’s tongue. We’re to go into a huddle before dinner. All very confidential, mysterious, and impressive, but it isn’t just an act.”

  “Be careful. He’s a good actor.”

  “Yes. And Marion, Bob, all of them are. I think—”

  He broke off at a tap at the door. Mannering called, “Come in.”

  A short, stocky man came in; his face was swarthy and deeply pitted from some pox. His grey eyes were set very deep, which may have accounted for their brilliance and steadiness; they made his face seem like a mask.

  “Mr. Shayne’s compliments, sir, and he will be happy if you will visit him at six-thirty.”

  “I’ll be there. Are you Meyer?”

  “Yes, sir, Mr. Shayne’s man.”

  Mannering nodded, and Meyer went out, soft-footed. Lorna took out an evening gown, shook it out, and said: “So Marcus has a bodyguard, and very tough. Could th
at face be disguised?”

  “If you mean, is it disguised, the answer’s no. The pock-marks are real. Don’t read more than there is into this. Meyer is probably a blameless servant, and Marcus could be innocent of all Bristow thinks he’s mixed up in.”

  “And I suppose Marion brought us here to sell us some Bruges lace.”

  “Wrong! Here’s a present for you.” He gave her the miniature, watched her unwrap it, and, as her eyes glowed, murmured, “They were the days when artists could paint.”

  Shayne’s room was two removed from the Mannerings, off the same wide, high passage. The carpet deadened the sound of Mannering’s footsteps as he went along, at twenty-five past six. As he approached and tapped, he thought he heard a movement inside. No one answered, so he tapped again sharply. This time there was no sound at all. He tried the handle; the door was locked. He drew back – and Shayne’s voice sounded, from just behind him.

  “You’re a minute or two early, Mannering.”

  Behind Shayne walked Meyer, who went into a room opposite this one. So neither had made that movement.

  “Did you leave the door locked?” Mannering asked.

  “Yes.” Shayne took a key from his pocket and inserted it, “I always do.” The lock clicked back. He turner the handle, and pushed, but the door did not open. In a flash, his urbanity vanished, alarm spread over his face.

  “Mannering! It’s bolted.”

  “Do you know the window, from outside?” Mannering gripped his shoulder. “What room is beneath it?”

  “It’s immediately above the morning room, but—”

  “Stay here. Fetch Meyer, in case our joker tries to get out this way.” Mannering ran along the passage. Outside, he turned right, towards the morning room’s French window. This opened to a rose terrace which ran along two sides of the Grange, with many arbours and pergolas. No one was in sight when Mannering reached the terrace, but as he drew near the corner he heard a sound of a man landing heavily on the path. He swung round the corner as the man straightened up and grabbed a trilby hat from the path. There was a scarf over his mouth and chin – and he was immediately beneath Shayne’s window. His head was quite bald, and he had a pair of big, rounded, blue eyes; startled eyes.

  They stood motionless, Mannering spoke first.

  “Well, little man, you’ve had a lot of practice at that job. Or have you been cleaning the windows?”

  The big blue eyes studied him; they looked shrewd. Slowly, gravely, he put on his hat; a green pork-pie hat. His voice was muffled by the scarf. Where he should be on an edge of fear, he was unperturbed, supremely self-confident.

  “I don’t understand you, sir. I was—”

  “Don’t talk too soon, give yourself time to think up a good story while we go indoors.”

  “I shall not talk to you or come with you,” the little man said, with dignity. “I have my own reasons for being here, and the best of reasons for wishing to leave. If you compel me to stay I shall cause such a scandal among your friends that you will forever regret your impetuosity.” It was remarkable; he didn’t even blink as he added, “You want to question Marcus Shayne, not me.”

  “All right. The police can question you.”

  “If you insist upon detaining me, you will regret it all your life. I simply came for a walk, and lost my way.”

  “And found yourself in the clouds.” Mannering put a hand on the little man’s shoulder. “You’re good, and—”

  “Leave me alone!” the man wrenched himself free. He clenched his right fist, drove a businesslike straight-left towards the chin; Mannering sidestepped, but his foot slipped and he lost his balance.

  The little man turned and ran.

  By the time Mannering had recovered and followed him, the other had reached the drive and was running pell-mell towards the gate. His hat fell off; his bald pate glistened. At the gate, he turned, toward Brockenhurst, and looked over his shoulder. When he saw he was being followed, he ran round a corner, and Mannering heard a car engine start up. As he rounded the corner himself, a small black car began to move slowly away from him.

  The narrow road ran straight for several hundred yards, and while the car was still in sight, the sound of another engine came from behind Mannering. He turned, to see a tradesman’s truck rattling along, sidelights on in the gloom.

  He stood in the middle of the road with his hands raised; the driver slowed down and, without a word, opened the door.

  “Thanks.” Mannering climbed in. “I’m in a hurry.”

  “Nice engine in this bus, sir. Want to get to Brockenhurst?” He put his foot down hard on the throttle.

  “I don’t know.” Mannering took out his wallet. “How do you like the sound of a fiver?”

  “Not bad!” Blue eyes twinkled.

  “It’s yours, if you’ll keep that little car in sight.”

  The speedometer needle crept from forty to fifty miles an hour. The little black car turned corner after corner, but they caught frequent glimpses of it.

  Mannering handed the driver a five-pound note and sat back. The truck rattled along and the car ahead was never out of sight for long; it did not put on speed. On the outskirts of Brockenhurst, Mannering said: “Try to close up, will you?”

  A train whistle shrieked, the red and white gates of a railroad crossing swung across the road, in front of the small car. There were two men in that, and neither looked round.

  “Think they know you’re after them?” asked the driver.

  “I’m hoping that they don’t. Keep close, now.”

  A train roared over the crossing, the gates opened, and the little car moved forward, but a few hundred yards along, it stopped outside a small, timbered gabled building which fronted the road. A hotel sign hung outside.

  “Your lucky night,” said the truckman.

  “Thanks to you.” The truck pulled up just beyond the hotel and, as Mannering got out, the little car was driven to the back of the hotel. By the time Mannering had thanked his helper, the driver and the bald-headed man went into the hotel. The truck-driver grinned, touched his cap, and moved off. Mannering took cover behind a tree and surveyed the hotel.

  He gave his quarry ten minutes’ grace before he crossed the road. The hotel door stood open. Inside, it was snug and pleasant, with a chatter of voices from the bar, old prints on the dark walls. Behind a reception desk sat a plump woman, all satin and chins, with a tight little mouth and beady eyes.

  “We’re full up.” Her voice matched her mouth.

  “Lucky you! Is Mr. Brown still here?”

  “No,” said the woman. “Never heard of him.”

  “That’s the trouble with bald heads,” said Mannering.

  “Did you say something about bald heads?”

  “Yes. I saw one which looked exactly like Brown’s, coming in here.”

  “Oh, that’s not a Mr. Brown! It’s a Mister—” She flipped open the register and ran her beringed finger down it, and Mannering read the room numbers upside down. “Mr. Carter.”

  “Carter, Carter,” repeated Mannering, and gave her a beaming smile. “It’s not such a small world as I thought. While I’m here, I may as well have a drink.”

  “There’s the bar,” she said, pointing.

  The bald-headed man who had signed as Carter was in Room 3.

  Mannering entered the cosy bar and ordered beer.

  A taxi brought visitors to the hotel, and Mannering promptly hired it. Little more than three-quarters of an hour after ne had run downstairs, he was back at the Grange. Dinner was at eight; he had good time to change.

  A fresh footman opened the door.

  “Are you Green?”

  “No, sir, he’s off duty, I think.”

  Mannering went upstairs. Lorna was not in their room, so he went along to Shayne’s. There was no response when he knocked. He turned, to see Shayne and Meyer, hatless, dishevelled, and muddy, coming along.

  Shayne hurried forward.

  “Are you all right, Ma
nnering?”

  “Yes. Where have you been?”

  “We thought we saw a man in the grounds. We went after him, but he led us on a wild goose chase. Have you been back long? I saw you hurtling down the drive.”

  “Does anyone besides Marion know what you’ve been doing?”

  “I don’t think so. We went out by a side door, and it was getting dark. Have you tried to get into my room?”

  “The door’s still bolted,” said Mannering.

  Shayne shook the handle, and frowned. “I don’t want to raise an alarm. Can you get in by the window, Meyer?”

  “Yes, sir!”

  “And if he’s seen, the story will be all over the house in five minutes,” said Mannering dryly. “Wait here, will you?” He went to his own room, and heard Lorna splashing in the bath. He opened a case in the wardrobe. He took out a large jack-knife, slipped it into his pocket, and went back.

  “It won’t take long,” Mannering promised.

  One blade of the knife was folded into three; opened out, it was nearly a foot long, sharp on one side, with a saw-edge on the other. It was flexible, too.

  “What shall we do?” Shayne asked.

  “Keep a lookout and say ‘Snap’ if anyone comes near. Meyer could stay on the landing.”

  Mannering bent down, pushed the blade between door and frame, and caught the bolt with the saw-edge. He pressed, and slid the bolt back a little at a time.

  The door opened.

  “Meyer!” Shayne called, and stood aside for Mannering to pass. “That’s a very neat trick.”

  “So was this,” said Mannering, heavily.

  Shayne began, “What—” but the word died on his lips when he saw the chaotic disorder of his room.

  Chapter Seven

  Drawers had been pulled open, their contents strewn about the floor; tables lay on their sides. Chairs were turned upside down. Several suits lay in a heap in front of the wardrobe. Bedclothes had been stripped off and flung aside, the mattress stood against the wall; there was a slit in it, as if someone had started to rip it to pieces. Open suitcases lay on their sides, the contents littering the floor near them.

  Shayne lifted a suitcase, and put it on the bed. It was made of pigskin, and empty like all the others. He took a small key from his pocket, and inserted it.