A Case for the Baron

by John Creasey

  “Did you know they knew each other?”

  “Yes, she told me this morning. But—”

  “Get out of here. Take her to Lord Fauntley’s home, in Portland Place. Lorna will look after her. Snap into it.”

  He wanted to question Celia. She looked dazed and bewildered; stricken. Twenty-four! Was Charles as blind as that? He mustn’t let them stay here; there was so much to do.

  Charles helped Celia up, led her out. Mannering went to the window of the drawing room and watched them as they reached the street in the gathering dusk. He turned to the telephone and called up Fauntley’s house. A footman answered; Lorna was soon speaking. Mannering talked swiftly …

  “I’ll look after her,” Lorna promised.

  “Don’t be too surprised if Bristow looks in or sends a man,” Mannering said. “Shayne has been murdered, but you’d better pretend not to know anything about it, unless Charles or Celia tells you. Tell them not to say where they last saw me.”

  “All right.”

  He hurried to the bathroom and found some elastoplast, a patent sticking plaster, in a tin together with a pair of scissors, and put everything back.

  On the study floor was a piece of paper. He picked it up and read a pencilled note: 5, Marble Court, Kensington.

  This mattered. Shayne had been told O’Malley’s address over the telephone. He had probably written it down.

  He put the paper into his pocket.

  He had been at the flat an hour, and still there was no sign of the police. Should he stay? Once Bristow took over, he’d have no chance to work here. Better chance it and play his luck. Why was he doing all this? He picked up the book from the desk, and opened it – and saw photographs; horror photographs, of wizened, potbellied skeletons who were children.

  The drawers in the desk were locked but easy to open with his knife. Inside were records of the Leyden Galleries business, some private papers, stock certificates, notes of stock-exchange transactions, catalogues of jewels and antiques, some obviously compiled privately for Shayne, listing the contents of auctioned houses; he searched on, impatient, anxious. He found a file containing the leases of the Galleries premises in London, Edinburgh, elsewhere at home and abroad.

  Shayne had been careful; there was nothing here to give the game away.

  Next he saw the lease of 11, Craven Mansions.

  He looked through it casually, then with quickening interest. The flat was not leased to Marcus Shayne, but to a William James Brent.

  Brent? It was Celia Brent!

  Yes, Celia Brent, no doubt of that. Even this evening, Bob had said with absurd pomposity, “Miss Brent.” Was Shayne an alias for Brent? Shayne or Brent, where was his safe?

  Mannering found it behind a small Dutch panel, built into the wall but not a combination. A good, solid job; he couldn’t hope to open it without tools. Hurry! And remember Bristow might be a long time coming to William James Brent’s flat, unless he knew of the two names. There must be some household tools in the flat; they’d serve. What about electric control? He mustn’t risk that, would switch off the current at the main. Find tools and torches quickly, and get to work. He’d need two hours, at least. Five years ago, the Baron could have opened it in one.

  The kitchen glistened with white paint and white tiles. Mannering opened the drawers one after the other and whistled when he saw a set of tools likely to please any mechanic. He also found two powerful torches.

  The safe was a challenge.

  Time rolled back and his fingers became more nimble. He had taken safes of this make to pieces in the past and put them together again, to make sure that he was familiar with had said with absurd pomposity, “Miss Brent.”

  He worked for half an hour before taking a breather, and judged it would take him another half-hour to finish, or perhaps a little longer. Yes, who said two hours?

  After five minutes, he started again; half an hour later he pulled at the handle and the door opened.

  Mannering drew it back slowly, stepping to one side, so as not to face the safe; there might be a charge of ammonia or tear gas inside, designed to put any thief out of action. He was on edge for the clatter of an alarm, as he opened the heavy door.

  Nothing went wrong; there were no booby traps.

  Inside, the safe was roomy and had two shelves. They were filled mostly with small, black cases: jewel cases. Were these the smuggled gems? Was life for thousands, hope for tens of thousands, shut up in those little black boxes?

  He opened the first case.

  A pair of pear-shaped diamond earrings scintillated at him from the velvet lining, as much alive as the four rose-tinted stones. He opened a second case. An emerald necklace, soft green fires burning in each stone, winked up at him.

  He looked into three more cases; two contained diamonds, one a single pearl, set as a brooch; a monster. Its lustre was superb, a gentle warmth seemed to spread from it. He knew what he had to do now – get these away, take them to a place of safety. These were undoubtedly the gems which Shayne had brought from the Continent, were meant for the Fund.

  But they might have been stolen, be ready for the underground market. Well, what if they were? They would still purchase food, medicines, clothes, warmth, hope.

  An attaché case stood near the desk, large enough to hold all the cases. He folded a newspaper, to prevent rattling, and packed the cases in. Carte blanche would hardly serve him with these. He closed the safe, spent ten minutes setting the lock so that only experts could tell that it had been tampered with. He went to the kitchen, switched on at the electric main, replaced the tools and torches, and went into the drawing room and looked out of the window. There was a car or taxi outside the flats.

  He went back to the study, for the case – then heard a movement in the hall.

  He approached the door softly and heard another sound. Probably the police had arrived and were waiting for him – certainly whoever was there had forced the front door expertly and in silence.

  He opened the attaché case quietly, took the gems from several of the jewel cases, put the cases back, and locked the attaché case. There was no further sound in the hall. He put the loose jewels in a dark blue handkerchief. They made a bundle about the size of his clenched fist. He went to the window and opened it; it made no noise. He saw no one about here and could only just see the shrubs below. He judged the distance and tossed the bundle towards them. It was swallowed up in the darkness. He turned-Standing by the door, his face showing no expression, was O’Malley.

  O’Malley had a gun in his right hand, behind him Mannering saw the shadowy figures of two other men.

  Chapter Seventeen

  Mannering did not move. The shadowy figures beyond O’Malley came forward. One thin, evil face was familiar.

  O’Malley said, “I warned you, Mannering. I didn’t want to make trouble for you, I was only after Shayne.”

  Mannering spoke in a voice which he hardly recognised as his own.

  “Well, you’ve got him.”

  “His death was inevitable, but he might not have died so soon if you hadn’t interfered.”

  O’Malley’s eyes were dark, now, but his button nose was red and he spoke in a flat voice, all its vitality had gone. It was as if he were aware of imminent danger, of the threat of a police swoop and the knowledge that, wherever he went, he would be hunted from now until he died.

  Mannering said, “You can’t get away with murder, O’Malley. You shouldn’t have killed Shayne.”

  “You can guess what you like. I’m not saying what I did. What did Shayne tell you over the telephone?”

  “That Meyer had traced you. And he told me where to find you.”

  Mannering passed his hand before his eyes. His forehead stung cold, as the sweat cooled. He could not understand why O’Malley stood here talking, if the man intended more murder; he should be dead by now. Had O’Malley acted in character, he would have fired as the door had opened. The gun had a long rubber snout: a silencer.

/>   One of the men moved towards a wall with slow, stealthy movements; the other stood in the hall.

  “How did you save yourself from Bristow, Mannering?”

  “I got to the cottage first and I found the pearls.”

  “I could work with you, Mannering; you would be useful, too. You collect ice, don’t you? All kinds of jewels, too. You know plenty, and you’ve got a tidy collection salted away. You strike me as a man who wouldn’t mind adding some good stones to it, without asking where they came from. You’re wealthy, Mannering. I’ll strike a bargain with you.”

  It was crazy. What did O’Malley really want?

  “You can become a customer of mine. I have some sparklers that would make you miserable if you saw but couldn’t buy them. I want a patron, Mannering. Get me? You’d do just right. I can lay my hands on the stuff.”

  “You want a what?”

  “I mean it. I had a patron, but I’m through with that one; now I need another. I want a safe market for sparklers and all the rest. You can be that market. You’ve never seen stuff better than I can get you. The price won’t be so high. There isn’t a collector in England who wouldn’t buy under cover. You’ve got plenty of nerve, Mannering; you wouldn’t mind buying stuff that was hot. I’m giving you the only chance you’ll get – to come in with me. If you don’t—”

  “There’s a little matter of murder.”

  “The police won’t get me for those. You needn’t worry about that: They might get me for robbery, if they’re lucky. That’s a risk you’d have to run. But if I were caught I wouldn’t give you away – I’m not that kind of rat.”

  “I almost believe you. What happened to your first patron?”

  “We had an agreement, and it’s been worked out.”

  “The murder of Shayne?”

  “I can’t help what you think. The murder of Shayne didn’t finish anything. Some things I found out about Shayne did, so the agreement was all washed up before Shayne died. We’ve broken up the partnership, and I want another partner – I prefer the word patron. I’ve been lifting sparklers and selling them fast for seven years without being caught, and I’m really likely to go on for a long time. I’m serious, Mannering. You’d better be. It’s work with me, or be snuffed out.”

  The gun moved; only an inch, not a tenth as much as Mannering’s heart.

  “If you said yes and then ratted, I should get you.” O’Malley licked his lips. “Even if you ran to Bristow and told him what you know, I’d still get you. Don’t worry about that. I want your answer.” He turned to one of the men. “Stop shuffling. I know what I’m doing!” He stood in the doorway, and the hall was pitch dark behind him; the study light fell on his face and that of the man beyond. The man inside the room kept sniffing.

  O’Malley said, “Go farther back.”

  Mannering backed away. One of the men went to the window; the other stood by the door. O’Malley followed Mannering into the room, and stood staring at him. Now Mannering could see him more clearly. There were traces of grease-paint on his face, smoothing out most of the lines. In the half-light, the disguise – or what was left of it – had been more effective than it was now. He looked pudgy, puny, and grotesque.

  O’Malley had been disguised when he had gone to Leyden Galleries and killed Shayne, and was sure that he had not been recognised, even if he had been seen near the shop. He was still confident. He wore gloves; like the other two. Had they worn those when killing Shayne?

  “You’re too long making up your mind,” said O’Malley. “You won’t leave here alive if you refuse; you won’t stay alive if you rat. You know a lot too much.”

  “I wish I did, O’Malley. You’d be surprised how little I know. I’ve been working in the dark for a long time. I don’t even know why you searched the cottage.”

  “To see what I could find, which was nil. You can give my description to the police. Maybe you have, but that doesn’t matter. You can tell them where I live; that is important. I know Shayne spoke to you on the telephone from Bond Street. That’s enough for me. You can’t talk your way out of this. You can’t fight your way out of it. You haven’t a chance unless you come in with me. You’ll have to watch yourself even if you do that. You’ll be watched, too, and at any sign of trouble, out you’ll go. Get this clear in your head, Mannering, it’s your only chance. You’re lucky to have it, and yon won’t keep it much longer.”

  Mannering said, “Yes, I’m lucky, and full of ideas. I can put up a proposition, too. You’re interested in jewels. Shayne collected a lot.” Mannering wasn’t terrified now; his heart was normal and his voice quite steady and unforced. “I know where they are.”

  “I don’t believe you.” But O’Malley’s eyes glinted.

  “But it’s true. I’ve seen some jewels in my life, but nothing like Shayne’s collection. They’re beyond price, and – I know where they are. That’s really worth knowing.”

  “And you think you can buy me off with them!”

  “I know where they are, O’Malley. I can lead you to them. No one else can – so it’s quite a gamble, both ways.” He turned; and his heart became a turbulent sea when his back was towards O’Malley. He went to the desk and half-sat on the edge of it, took a cigarette from a box on the desk and a match from the tray. He lit the cigarette, cupping the match in his hands and then holding it up and watching it as it went out.

  “Well?” he said.

  “You’re as tough as they come. No, I won’t buy that one.”

  “That’s too bad. There are a lot of beauties.” What a relief to have tobacco! “But I forgot you haven’t a patron, so they’re not much use to you.”

  After a pause, O’Malley said thinly: “Where are they?”

  “They were at Bond Street. You were careless.” O’Malley turned his head and the slight movement eased the strain.

  The man by the door sniffed and looked at his brown shoes. “You fool!” O’Malley said thinly. “You told me you’d looked eve—”

  He was going to say ‘everywhere,’ had forgotten himself enough to admit that he had been at the Galleries. A triumph for Mannering – a hollow triumph.

  Mannering drew on the cigarette and glanced about the room. By the open door was the pigskin attaché case, with so many jewels in it. He did not think that O’Malley would leave that at the flat. It had been worth trying because it had gained him time and quietened his fear, but it didn’t alter the situation.

  O’Malley said harshly: “You think you’re clever. I’ve told you my conditions. You’ll come with me from here, and before you’re out on your own again you’ll be so anxious to persuade me to keep away from the police that you won’t have the nerve to double-cross me.”

  “So that’s it!’

  “That’s it, and all about it. Want to live?”

  O’Malley was playing like a desperate man, for high stakes. Why? He wanted to involve Mannering in his crimes, to have him completely under his thumb. Why? Did it matter? Did anything matter but getting away from here, alive, making any promise and taking any risk?

  O’Malley’s finger was on the trigger. “Make up your mind!”

  Then the telephone bell rang.

  The ringing sound cut across the silence after O’Malley’s words. It went on ringing, its harsh note jarring through the room. Mannering glanced round. O’Malley shot a glance towards it, and the man near the wall stepped forward.

  O’Malley snapped, “Don’t answer it!”

  Mannering smiled; but the sweat was hot on his forehead again. The cigarette felt warm against his lips.

  O’Malley drew nearer, and stood between him and the telephone.

  The ringing went on and on.

  Chapter Eighteen

  The tension was unbearable now. The telephone had cut across O’Malley’s thoughts and might jolt him into action. A slight movement of his finger on the trigger, and that would be the end. He had come here confident that Mannering would accept his chance of life, had allowed himself to argue,
might now put an end to all argument. Mannering said slowly: “You’ll be wise to take that call.” He pulled at the adhesive plaster on his fingers; the pieces came off easily.

  O’Malley moved toward the telephone, crab-wise, keeping Mannering covered and his finger on the trigger. He stretched out his left hand and lifted the receiver. ‘Hallo!” He whispered, in a hoarse voice.

  A voice crackled from the earpiece. O’Malley shot him a swift, suspicious glance as he asked, “Who’s speaking?”

  A pause, then he looked at Mannering with a mixture of hatred and fear. Thank God, he was frightened.

  “It’s your wife!”

  “I thought it might be.” Mannering fought to keep his voice calm. “I’d like to speak to her. You’ll surely grant the condemned man’s last privilege? I noticed an extension in the hall. Why don’t you listen in from there?”

  O’Malley looked at the man by the door. “See if she’s speaking on that line, too.”

  The man slunk off, a bell went ting!, and the man spoke. A moment later he called out, “I can hear her.”

  “Be careful what you say, Mannering.”

  O’Malley put the receiver on the desk, and moved away, but didn’t alter the direction of his gun.

  Mannering lifted the telephone.

  “Hallo, my sweet!”

  “John, get away from there!” The words were clear. Mannering said: “That’s not so easy. What’s it all about?”

  “Bristow arrived soon after Charles and Celia. He tricked Charles into giving him the address, and left twenty minutes ago. I couldn’t get to the phone before. Bristow will be almost on the doorstep by now. Get away, John.”

  “All right, my sweet. Don’t worry.”

  “John, what’s the matter with you?”

  “Nothing at all,” Mannering forced a laugh. “At least, not much! I’m in the middle of the search and hoped for another hour, but I’ll scramble now. Goodbye, my darling.” He couldn’t prevent it; his voice shook a little on the last words. Lorna drew in a sharp breath, and cried: “John, what’s gone wrong? What—”