The Baron at Large

by John Creasey

  Rogerson’s hard breathing filled the following pause.

  He had shown enough to convince Mannering that he knew of the new company, and that it was a ramp, but at the mention of Fauntley and Sharron there had been no reaction. Mannering’s own anxiety was to make Rogerson think he was interested only in the company angle, and he believed he was succeeding.

  ‘Well,’ said Mannering. ‘Are you feeling more talkative?’

  Rogerson said nothing. Mannering shrugged, and stepped to the window. He saw no one outside, but he believed Bristow would have a man watching back and front. With Rogerson in tow it would not be easy to dodge a trailer.

  ‘No?’ murmured the Baron. ‘All right. You’re coming with me, Rogerson. If you cause trouble, or if you make a break for safety and happen to get away, the police will be after you within ten minutes.’ He stepped to the cabinet, picked up the whisky glass with his handkerchief, and brought it to Rogerson. ‘Hold that.’

  Rogerson reared up.

  ‘No, no!’

  ‘Don’t be a damned fool, I’m not going to poison you. Hold it!’

  Rogerson’s fingers were trembling, but he obeyed. Mannering took the glass away, then pointed an unloaded revolver at Rogerson while he cut the cord at his ankles.

  ‘Now open and close the cabinet.’

  With a surly shuffle the man did so.

  ‘Good. Your prints are on the glass and the wood: attempted murder carries a long sentence, Rogerson. Now get this into your head. We’re going downstairs, and either walking to Piccadilly, or taking a taxi. If you try to dodge me, I’ll shoot you, and then tell the police I was taking you to the Yard. Does it sink in?’

  It seemed to do so. Mannering was relieved to find no watcher outside his flat.

  Nor were they followed when a taxi took them to The Pitcher, a public house near Wine Street. The cab slowed down, and Mannering would have alighted but for the man standing on the kerb reading an evening paper.

  It was Detective Inspector Moss: Drew and Edwards lounged nearby.

  Chapter Fifteen

  Counter Trick

  Rogerson had made no protest, said not a word. Mannering felt alarm sear through him as he leaned forward, slid the partition back, and snapped to the driver: ‘Make it Aldgate Station, please.’

  Mannering was now fighting both sides; more than ever the need for relying almost entirely on himself impressed itself, as the need for making no single slip grew more urgent.

  He did not believe it was a coincidence that the police were in force at The Pitcher. Word had got through, and the men had been taken from Brook Street merely to lull him into a state of false security. It was touch and go all the time, with Bristow, and every move could spell disaster.

  What should he do now?

  Rogerson stirred, glancing from the window. Mannering felt the tension in the other, sensed what was in his mind.

  Mannering slid open the partition again.

  The cabby turned his head, showing a bored face resigned to the eccentricities of his fares.

  ‘Yessir?’

  Where, where, where? The question flooded Mannering’s mind. Three direct problems faced him. To avoid The Pitcher and therefore the police; to find Leverson and get Rogerson to a place of safety; and to prevent the man from knowing that his captor was afraid of the police – if, indeed, it was not already too late for that.

  He took a chance, keeping his voice low.

  ‘Nineteen Wine Street, do you know it?’

  The cabby nodded, turned a corner sharply, and drew up outside Leverson’s house.

  Mannering glanced about him, making sure that there was no one in sight. The police might be watching, but they had probably kept away from Leverson’s place as well as his.

  He paid the cabby, and pushed Rogerson forward. As he did so, the front door of the house opened, and he was relieved to recognise the trim figure of Janet, Leverson’s maid. Janet had served the fence for years: Leverson had saved her father from prison, for that Janet was prepared to serve him to the end of time. She was no more than twenty-five, pert, neat, friendly, and with all the nimble-wittedness of the native East Ender.

  ‘Good evening, Mr. Mannering.’

  ‘Hallo, Janet. Mr. Leverson’s expecting me’

  ‘He’s—’

  ‘Out, I know, but I’ll wait.’

  She nodded and drew aside. Rogerson and the Baron went into the drawing-room where Mannering had talked with Leverson on his return to London. Only the firelight illuminated it at first, lending the room a homely, mellow atmosphere of rest and ease.

  Janet switched on the light and the illusion vanished. Rogerson’s dark face registered danger; he was kept in check only because of the fingerprints on the glass and cabinet. Janet eyed him inquiringly.

  ‘He was to meet me at The Pitcher,’ Mannering said, ‘but I preferred to come straight here.’

  ‘I’ll send a message,’ promised Janet.

  Mannering had reason to know how reliable she was in emergency, and he felt happier as he followed her into the hall, and whispered: ‘Tell him The Pitcher’s surrounded.’

  Her eyes widened, but she nodded comprehendingly.

  Rogerson was on his feet, and a torrent of words greeted Mannering as he re-entered the room.

  ‘You can’t do it, I tell you you can’t do it, they’ll fix you, I’ll see to that, they’ll fix you!’

  Mannering said: ‘We’ll know better what to do with you in a few days, Rogerson. Tonight’s little game at Brook Street will stop me from worrying overmuch.’ He spoke coldly, dispassionately, praying that his bluff would succeed. ‘I’ve been watching you, as Mendleson’s right-hand man, and I’ve wanted this talk. The prussic acid gives it more point, that’s all. If you talk, and if it’s the truth, I might let you go. Who pitched the fairy story that I was the Baron?’

  Rogerson gulped. ‘I’m not talking!’

  They waited in silence until Leverson walked into the room.

  ‘There’s our man,’ Mannering said, ‘if you can look after him for a bit, we’ll fix details later.’

  ‘Yes, I’ll do it,’ Leverson promised.

  Mannering was startled. Flick’s voice had altered; it held a sharpness that was not far from viciousness as he stared at Rogerson.

  ‘I could doubtless persuade him to talk now,’ said Leverson, in that dead cold voice, ‘if you can stay.’

  ‘I’m in a rush, Flick.’

  ‘A pity.’ Leverson sounded regretful as they turned away. At the door he muttered: ‘Moss is still at The Pitcher, but you weren’t recognised.’

  ‘You saw me?’

  ‘I saw the cab. I’ll phone you later, at the call-box.’

  ‘So they’ve tapped the wire?’

  ‘Yes.’ Leverson turned back to Rogerson, while Mannering went out.

  He had little cause to feel elated. Bristow was using his heavy artillery, watching everywhere and taking no chances. Gillison had proved his ruthlessness. To win any chance at all, the Baron had to work fast and strike where it was least expected.

  Leverson had scared him, and would have scared most men with that slow, cold, cruel voice. A surprising man, Flick Leverson, used to dealing with all kinds of emergency, yet mellow and suave and never ruffled.

  At nine o’clock to the minute Mannering was ringing the bell at Portland Place.

  As Parker opened the door Mannering heard Fauntley’s voice, querulous and sharp.

  ‘But I tell you they must be found. My dear Sharron—’

  ‘Miss Lorna is upstairs, sir,’ said Parker, ‘if you’d care to go straight up.’

  ‘Tell her I’ll be up soon,’ said Mannering. ‘Announce me downstairs now, will you?’

  ‘Very good, sir.’

  Fauntley, breaking off his conversation with Sharron, gave a nod and a half-smile. ‘Hallo, John.’

  Mannering gave an answering greeting, then turned to Sharron.

  ‘Hallo, Sharron, I’ve been going to se
e Reggie all day, but haven’t managed it. Have you been?’

  The peer was looking very uneasy, Mannering also thought that he looked ill.

  ‘Not yet,’ he said. ‘I’m going on from here. Good of you to look after him, Mannering.’

  ‘I’ve been saying, the police must find the stones,’ Fauntley broke in, impatient to get at the subject closest to his heart. ‘Five days, and not a sign. They’ll be out of the country if we’re not careful.’

  ‘No one’s more sorry about it than I am, Fauntley,’ said Sharron sharply. ‘But talking like this leads us nowhere. Obviously the work was done by expert jewel-thieves, we must give the police time. After all, we were insured.’

  ‘Insured? And will money give me back the Leopolds? The only emeralds authoritatively connected with the Russian Crown in this country!’

  ‘For God’s sake shut up!’ roared Sharron.

  He was on his feet, glaring at the startled Fauntley. Mannering had never seen a man nearer breaking point, and he wondered what was causing it. Not worry about the jewels, he was sure of that. It was the moment he had been waiting for, the chance to catch Sharron off his guard.

  ‘There are other things,’ he said soothingly. ‘For instance, have you heard rumours about Mendleson?’

  Sharron flinched, his whole bearing betraying the shock of the words. In that moment the Baron was convinced of Sharron’s complicity in one game or the other.

  ‘What about him?’ gasped Fauntley.

  Mannering said easily: ‘Rumours, and strong ones, that he’s up to some chicanery with a new company. He—’

  ‘What?’ yelled Fauntley. ‘You mean to say that’s unsound?’

  Sharron had dropped back into his chair, was trying hard to regain his lost composure as Mannering said: ‘There’s reason to believe it, anyhow. I don’t know anything about the company, but I did hear that Sharron was on the board.’ He looked inquisitively at Sharron, but it was Fauntley who answered.

  ‘He was,’ snapped Fauntley, ‘and so was I. Am, I mean – look here, John, if it’s true I must see him. But I can’t believe—damme, it’s a quarter of a million pound issue, we’ve even rented factories, placed orders for machinery!’

  “The rumours are about,’ said Mannering.

  ‘It’s madness! I tell you I’ve every confidence in the company – it’s to manufacture electrical parts essential for aeroplanes and cars, it has already secured Government orders. I must see Mendleson at once.’

  Orders obtained through Fauntley, thought Mannering, and he watched Sharron, who had gone very white but was making a strong effort to regain his composure.

  ‘Nonsense, Fauntley, you can’t talk to him about rumours.’

  ‘Can’t I! I’ve already advanced twenty thousand! I—John, this can’t be true! It must be some absurd mistake!’ Mannering shrugged.

  ‘Possibly. I’ll find what I can by tomorrow, and let you know. Is Lorna in?’

  ‘Yes, upstairs.’

  As Mannering left the room he heard Fauntley’s voice raised again in indignation. He hurried up the stairs and found Lorna and Fay together.

  ‘I can’t stay for more than a minute,’ he told them, ‘but I’ve news of a sort.’

  Fay was on her feet in an instant, looking at him with a queer, intense expression.

  ‘About Bill?’

  ‘I have it on good authority,’ said Mannering, ‘that he was asked to help in the robbery, and turned the offer down. Abruptly, I gather. If he did anything he shouldn’t, it was in keeping the suggestion from the police.’

  ‘So he refused,’ Fay said in a low voice, ‘and they killed him to prevent him from talking. Who are they?’

  He wondered what would happen if eventually it was proved that her father had been in the conspiracy, but he pushed the thought aside.

  ‘I’m not sure, Fay, I can’t work miracles. Meanwhile you won’t leave here, please. You might telephone Reggie, he helped me to get at the facts. You won’t get him, of course, but there’s a nurse on duty all the time. Done?’

  Before she could speak again he was gone.

  Striding towards Piccadilly, Sharron’s car passed him. Immediately he sprinted to a coasting taxi and wrenched the door open.

  ‘Keep that car in sight,’ he snapped.

  Five minutes later, the Rolls pulled up outside Mendleson’s house in South Audley Street.

  Yvonne had assured Mannering that Mendleson knew nothing of the robbery. Yet surely, Mannering thought, his presence at Castelnau had been too soon after the affair to be fortuitous?

  Was Mendleson holding the diamonds?

  Did he know that Rogerson had been to visit Mannering, and on what errand?

  Was it too risky to visit Mendleson by night?

  The Baron very much disliked the idea. Such a house was usually backed by a courtyard, and frequently a labyrinth of passages. Yet it seemed increasingly certain that Mendleson was the key to the whole business. Mannering stopped the cab, but hesitated; he had no tools with him. The front door lock of the house was unlikely to be difficult. Should he take the risk of getting in and trying to overhear the conversation?

  He knew that such an undertaking was madness, but it was a fact that he had an opportunity unlikely to come again. The two men perhaps most vitally concerned were at that moment in earnest discussion.

  To break in was a risk no greater than he had taken a dozen times in the past. He had a scarf in his pocket, which he could easily use for a mask.

  The cabby shifted irritably.

  ‘All right,’ said Mannering sharply, and his heart was pounding as he climbed out and walked back along the road. An iron gate, four steps and the front door. People were passing to and fro, cars went by with their lights glowing. The street lamps spread a brilliance, making everything clear.

  The very audacity of it would get him over the first hurdle.

  Now that his mind was made up he pushed all thought of the risk aside, drugging his reason with the excuse that speed was all important. When he reached the front door he had his penknife in his hand.

  The lock was old-fashioned and simple: he took less than ten seconds to push it back and open the door.

  A dim light shone from the hall. Mannering listened, but heard no sound other than the murmur of voices muffled by a closed door. He slipped the scarf over his face so that only his eyes showed.

  He was keyed up to a high stretch now, but his chief thought was of the conversation coming from a room on the left of the hall. It was loud enough for him to catch an occasional word.

  He reached the door.

  Tensely he tried the handle. The door opened.

  Sharron was saying excitedly: ‘But I tell you it’s true! Mannering’s heard the rumour, you’ve got to get me out of it!’

  ‘Mannering hasn’t heard the rumour,’ said Mendleson clearly, ‘because there isn’t one. He’s seen you are jittery, and it appears that he’s interested in me, though not, perhaps, as much as I am interested in him.’

  ‘But why should he be? Answer me that!’

  Mendleson swore.

  ‘That blasted robbery! If I knew who’d been to the Towers I’d break their necks! A lot of publicity was the last thing I wanted. Oh, I saw on Tuesday that Mannering believed Armstrong had been murdered, and he’s played some fool detective games in the past. The man’s a lot too swollen-headed, it’ll be a pleasure to clip his wings.’

  ‘And how will you do that, pray?’

  ‘Slander,’ snapped Mendleson, tersely.

  There was silence from the room now, as though the others were giving Mannering breathing space as well as themselves. And he needed it! If Mendleson was not acting, he knew nothing of the robbery. That confirmed Yvonne’s opinion. It meant that Sharron knew nothing, it meant that Mendleson had no idea of Rogerson’s attempt to kill him, although Rogerson was his private secretary.

  And if he was prepared to take action for slander it suggested that the company could bear any inves
tigation.

  Mannering’s carefully built-up theories were blown away. He would have to cast round for another explanation. Already possible suspects were running through his mind. Gillison, of course, at the head. Mervin – he had not seen the man yet – Reggie Sharron, even Theo Crane.

  He would …

  Footsteps came, soft and nearby.

  The Baron stiffened, aware of his own danger. At the top of the stairs he saw the legs and feet of a man, coming quickly down.

  Chapter Sixteen

  Mr. Lancelot Mervin

  Between safety and discovery there was a fraction of a second, and Mannering was not sure whether it was enough. He moved backwards with three short, swift steps, and stood against the panelling that ran beneath the staircase. If the man had glanced down at that moment the alarm would have been raised; as it was the soft footsteps continued, very close to Mannering’s head, and the Baron’s hands were clenched to meet the trouble if it came.

  Had he been seen?

  The man hesitated at the foot of the steps, and then stepped forward, towards the front door. The Baron glanced behind him, but there was nowhere he could hide. A door, leading to a cupboard wardrobe under the stairs was ten feet along the passage, too far away for him to reach in safety.

  The front door opened, and the chill air came in, fluttering the scarf about Mannering’s face. The servant stood for a moment on the threshold, and Mannering could hear him sniffing the night air. And at the same time a chair scraped from the room where Sharron and Mendleson had been talking.

  Mannering moved.

  He reached the door. The man heard him, and turned about. He saw the tall man in evening dress, and the mask: and then the tall man’s fist shot out, and hit him scientifically on the solar plexus. Before he could fall, the Baron caught him, reversed positions, lowered him gently, and stepped across the threshold.