by John Creasey
He hurried down the steps, turning right towards a side turning. A cruising taxi slowed down.
‘London Pavilion,’ said the Baron.
The impulse to risk such a visit had been justified. He was doubly glad now that he had taken the chance.
How far had he committed himself?
Could Mendleson take an action for slander on the strength of that brief conversation?
Was Mendleson quite guiltless of conspiracy in both the robbery and the company?
They were questions it was impossible to answer immediately. He was inclining more and more to the theory that Sharron was a party to the theft, without Mendleson’s knowledge, but the issues were getting hopelessly confused, and he was as far away from the jewels as when he had started.
At a telephone booth he looked up Mervin. An uncommon name, he found, and there was only one in residence at Bewlay Mansions, Mayfair; his Christian name was Lancelot.
Mervin looked at the ringing telephone with reproachful eyes.
The brilliantly painted room held a nightmarish quality which was increased by Mervin, as he sat back on an Oriental divan, sandals on his plump feet, a green dressing-gown embroidered with red dragons about his tubby form. In his fingers, very fat and white, was the end of an opium dipper.
Regretfully, reproachfully, Mervin rested the dipper in the glass jar of opium, and slid from the divan. Softly he lifted the receiver of the telephone. ‘This is Lancelot Mervin.’
‘Have you seen Rogerson?’ Gillison’s voice came sharply. Mervin’s eyes narrowed, as though pained by the other’s abruptness.
‘No, no, not since six o’clock, my friend.’
‘Has he reported?’
‘Not, I’m afraid, to me.’
‘We’ve got to find him,’ snapped Gillison. ‘He should have been back by now. Where did he go, do you know?’
‘Unfortunately he did not confide in me. Such a pity, but a self-willed gentleman, as you know. Did he not give you any information?’
‘He said he knew where to find the Baron,’ Gillison grunted.
‘Yes, of course. He even admitted that to me. But nothing more. I am convinced, my friend, that he plans to blackmail the Baron, and is very anxious that no one should share the ample proceeds.’
‘You’re way out,’ said Gillison grimly. ‘He wasn’t going to work him. I’d told him what to do.’
There was a moment’s silence, and then Mervin’s lips twitched.
‘I see, my friend, I see. Taking no chances, eh? Or possibly changing them for others.’
‘Don’t blether,’ said Gillison. ‘Rogerson was due at ten o’clock. If the damned fool had told me the name I could make inquiries.’
‘So unfortunate,’ crooned Mervin, ‘that Rogerson works so much on his own. So inconsiderate. But still he has a remarkable way of coming successfully through these various crises. I expect he will appear again. Er—my dear Gillison, I am a little worried, just a little worried. My safe is a teeny bit overloaded at the moment. You will try to relieve the pressure in the near future, I trust.’
‘It’s all right there for the time being.’
‘Yes. But think of the Baron, my friend, if he took it into his head to pay me a visit, how disastrous it would be.’
‘He can’t know you,’ snapped Gillison.
‘But can you be sure?’ Mervin sighed. ‘Is there anything else?’
‘If Rogerson phones you, ring me at once.’
Mervin replaced the instrument slowly, and looked at the divan, with its rich silks and draperies. His eyes, brown, soulful, carrying the indefinite signs of a drug-addict, widened. Regretfully he put out the lamp, placing it, with the pipe, in a cabinet of ebony, exquisitely carved.
Every movement was slow, yet despite his uncouth figure he had a feline grace; uncanny, to some people frightening. Wrapping the dressing-gown more tightly about him, he opened a door and stepped through into what appeared to be a music room. In one corner stood a Bechstein grand, near it a set of Chinese reed pipes. Lining one wall was a rack used for keeping music. Of the three easy-chairs only one was occupied, and that by a woman. She was plump and shapeless, and sleeping heavily.
Mervin touched her shoulder. Her eyes flicked open.
‘What is it, dear, what is it?’
‘I would like you to sing, Clara,’ said Mervin gently.
She rubbed her eyes, looked about her, as though only half-awake, then moved to the piano. The first strains of Schubert’s Der Jangling und Der Tong drifted slowly and exquisitely into the room.
At one o’clock that morning the Baron entered Bewlay Mansions.
In the night-porter’s cubby-hole a man was dozing in front of a gas fire, and the Baron’s rubber-soled shoes made no sound on the stone floor. Even if the porter had looked up he would have seen only a portly, middle-aged gentleman entering the Mansions so openly that no suspicions would have been aroused.
The Baron located Flat 17, which was on the second floor.
It could be approached by the stairs and by an automatic lift, and he chose the stairs. The wide passage which led to three other flats, was carpeted. No sound was coming from the right or left, and no gleams of light showed. He approached Number 17 quickly, and examined the lock.
It was a Yale, and therefore could not be picked by a skeleton key. If he attempted other means the noise might disturb a dozen people; in any case it would take him twenty minutes, while if anyone passed while he was inside the Hat the damage to the lock would be noticed immediately.
Quickly he walked to the end of the passage, making a mental drawing of the layout of the floor. A door leading to the fire-escape opened without trouble. Mannering slipped outside. A faint glow, coming through thick curtains, showed at one window.
He identified the lighted window quickly: it was one opening from Mervin’s flat. Its neighbour was in darkness, and from it led another fire-escape.
The Baron hurried down to the courtyard, and climbed the second flight of iron stairs. As he reached the landing outside the flat he stood and looked down. The street lamps spread only a faint light, and he could no longer see them, which meant that he could not be seen from the streets. There were no lights at the windows opposite.
He slipped the scarf mask over his face.
The window he had chosen to be his means of entry was in small panes, about nine inches high by five across, and the framework was of iron. The catch was on the left-hand side.
From his tool-kit he took a sheet of brown paper, and damped a side already gummed with a sponge taken from a wash-leather bag. He stuck the paper over the pane nearest the catch, left it for a few seconds, and took a rubber-handled screwdriver from his pocket.
Although he had believed there were no sounds he was faintly aware of a woman’s voice singing.
Sharply, he struck the paper with the screwdriver handle.
There was a dull crack, noise enough to make him turn and scan the courtyard below, but after thirty seconds no sound of alarm disturbed him. He turned back to the window, and pulled the paper away, and the noise was hardly audible. When the paper was in his hand, pieces of glass were slicking to it.
He cleared the leaded frame, then slid his hand inside the broken window.
There was no noise as he lowered the catch, no sign of a wire alarm. He used his torch, making sure there was no alarm inserted against the outside frame. Satisfied, he pushed the window open. A heavy curtain hung inside, and he pushed it back before climbing through.
From the far end of the room came a glimmer of light, barely discernible, while the singing grew louder. He moved towards the door, where he expected to find the light switch. He succeeded, and a soft light flooded the room.
Mannering stood and stared.
A faint smell hung about the room, almost like incense, but apart from the crumpled cushions of the divan and the red telephone in one corner, there was no sign of occupation. He opened a small door and found that it led through a kitch
en to the front door of the flat. It was locked and bolted, and wired for alarm. He snapped the wire with his cutters, drew the bolts, and unlatched the door before turning back to the room he had left.
His eyes ran over the ebony cabinet as he registered the fact that opium had been recently smoked.
All the time the faint strains of music and a voice raised in song came to his ears. To reach the bedroom where the safe was likely to be, he had to pass through the next room. Should he wait, hoping that Mervin and the woman would go to bed? Or should he put a scare into them?
Mannering’s eyes narrowed, and very softly he touched the handle of the door. When it was open a fraction of an inch singing came more clearly.
He had heard the voice before.
He knew that, but could not recall where. No matter. He slipped his right hand into his pocket and drew out a gun. It was unloaded – the Baron knew better than to risk being caught with a loaded firearm in his possession – but it looked dangerous. Handy, too, was the gas-pistol.
He opened the door wider, and slipped through.
The man was sitting sideways to the door, the woman was looking at him.
The Baron stood very still, trying to believe his eyes.
It was Mendleson’s wife; he knew now where he had heard the voice before, and in his mind’s eye there was a picture of that night at Beverley Towers.
Did this explain the mystery?
He had ignored the women as suspects, but Clara Mendleson and Mervin here together, at nearly two o’clock, suggested a long association.
At a slight sound, the woman swung round, a scream at her lips, but it stopped as the Baron moved his gun. Mervin only turned his head. Mannering saw those sleepy, unnatural eyes, knew that the man was drugged. He said sharply: ‘Start playing again.’
A moment’s hesitation, and then the man obeyed. The Baron was thinking fast, wondering whether to make them unconscious before searching the bedroom, or to make Mervin open the safe. It was uncanny to feel those sad eyes fixed on his.
Before he spoke again, Mervin opened his lips.
‘And what, my friend, have you done with Rogerson?’
The Baron’s grip on his gun tightened.
‘I’ve come to get—’
‘The jewels, of course, the lovely jewels!’
But with the silky words there came to the Baron an uneasy feeling of distrust; the room held a menace he could not explain, but it filled him with an unreasoning fear. And all the time Mervin’s strange eyes were fixed on his, and the woman sat there shaking.
Chapter Seventeen
No Escape?
The effect of the unspoken menace remained for what seemed an unconscionable time. The Baron believed he understood it when Mervin began to strum a nonsense melody that increased the atmosphere of unreality. The man was mad.
‘You seem disturbed, my friend,’ said Mervin softly.
‘You need not be. The jewels are here, or those with which I was trusted.’
‘Where is the safe?’
‘A problem, my friend, but won’t you sit and listen to—’
Mad? He was as sane as Mannering, but he was bluffing; just for a moment his eyes had glinted with a natural cunning. His voice had grown sharper, too. Mannering shivered uncontrollably.
‘Stand up, Mervin, with your back to me.’
‘But, my friend—’
‘Stand up!’ The gun moved to give force to the words, and Mervin lifted his hands from the keys, and rose slowly.
‘Walk towards me, backwards,’ ordered the Baron.
His left hand went into his pocket for the gas-pistol, but he did not draw it out until Mervin was within a yard of him. He expected a trick from the man, but none was tried.
‘Stop,’ said Mannering.
A scream, stifled at birth, came from the woman’s lips as he pulled out the gas-pistol, and at the same moment swung Mervin round. Automatically the man drew an inward breath, and he took the full force of the ether gas. He staggered, his hands moved, and then he slumped into a nearby chair. His breathing grew heavier, Mannering watched him struggling against the inevitable unconsciousness.
Mannering turned to the woman.
‘Come here,’ he said. ‘It won’t hurt, you’ll be asleep for a few minutes, that’s all.’
‘No, no, I daren’t!’
He stepped towards her swiftly, and although she threw up her hands to try to save herself, the gas worked quickly. As he lowered her to a chair he saw that her lips had acquired a bluish tinge. He dared not use chloroform, for even under the ether her pulse was beating too fast, and for her to die under the anaesthetic would amount to murder. He did not think she presented much danger, but he tied her ankles together, not too tightly, and her wrists.
He dosed Mervin with chloroform.
Now that they were both unconscious and he had the flat to himself, the peculiar feeling of unreality had disappeared. But its influence remained.
Did Mervin know or suspect the identity of the Baron?
He stepped into the bedroom. It was decorated in futuristic splashes of vari-coloured paint, and he saw with relief that it was surprisingly empty of clutter.
It was impossible to say from a glance at the walls that there was no wall-safe. One might be hidden behind the paintwork, merging with it so as to be discerned only with difficulty. Mervin had admitted the jewels were here.
Had he lied?
The Baron half-wished that he had forced the man to reveal his safe, but he was glad that Mervin was unconscious. Those queer eyes worried him, even in retrospect. If it were possible to find an atmosphere of evil, Mannering believed that it was here: the place was bad.
He worked systematically at the walls, running the palm of his gloved hands over every square inch, without result. Puzzled, he searched the drawers of two small chests. Neither of them yielded what he wanted; both were movable, not fixed to the wall as he had at first suspected. Nor was there any room for a false drawer or a sliding panel. More puzzled than before, he went back into the music room, but a search there revealed nothing that might help him find the safe.
He tried the floors, but the rubber was in one piece, joined to the rubber of the walls. Mervin had made the flat virtually soundproof; even the doors were lined with rubber, which overlapped on all sides, excluding both draught and sound.
The search grew more fantastic with the passing minutes.
The silence, too, was unnatural. He glanced at his watch and saw that it was half-past two. An hour’s search, without result.
He examined the piano, but found no evidence of a secret hiding place. Three o’clock came.
Mannering was beginning to fall under the spell of the apartment, and the apparently non-existent safe added to his disquiet. He stripped the beds, but the framework was of tubular steel. The mattresses yielded nothing.
There was nothing in the room he had not examined.
At half-past three, working all the time in an atmosphere of unreality that was rapidly getting on his nerves, he looked again at his watch, then glanced up sharply at the clock set in the wall.
It was set against a patch of vermilion red and seemed genuine enough. But he worked at it swiftly, prising the glass open.
With a small screwdriver, he took out the screws holding the clock to the wooden base behind it. The uncertainty, the menace of the flat was back in his mind. He was hardly breathing, for the suppressed excitement and the possibility that he had found what he wanted merged together in a high tension.
And then the tension broke, with a sharp hiss.
Automatically he ducked, but not before he had seen the white vapour spitting out, nor before the gas had bitten at his eyes. He clenched his teeth to stop from crying out with the sharp pain, as he reeled backwards.
He hit against a bed and collapsed on it, holding his head in his hands. He recognised the symptoms of tear-gas, thanking heaven that the mask had protected him from a stronger dose.
He had no
idea how long he was sitting there, but gradually his sight came mistily back to him. Rising unsteadily he groped his way to the bathroom. Among the jars and lotions he at last found what he wanted, a bottle of boric acid crystals. He made a solution in lukewarm water, and the relief to his eyes was immediate.
Five minutes later he was nearly normal.
When he reached the music room again, Mervin was conscious. His lips curved in a gentle smile.
‘Not too unpleasant I trust, my friend?’
‘Experience is nearly always useful,’ said Mannering drily, ‘I won’t be unprotected another time.’ He bent down, tested the bonds, and went back into the bedroom.
The tear-gas had expended itself, and Mannering found the door of the safe behind the lock easy to open. It was larger than he had expected, and it contained both jewel-cases and papers. Mannering cleaned it out, replaced a wad of notes, and then examined the cases.
His hands were trembling a little, but he knew after a quick inspection that he had found most of what he wanted.
Fauntley’s Leopolds winked up, their lambent green like winking eyes. The Delling stones, a diamond string, were there: so were Crane’s rubies, and Mendleson’s mixed collection, all fine gems. A fortune for the taking!
He checked them over, and when he had finished he frowned. The only stones missing except the Kransits, which Leverson had held temporarily, were his own Glorias.
‘Which has its amusing side,’ said the Baron aloud.
‘And so has this,’ said Mervin from the door.
The Baron swung round. Mervin, legs and arms free, was standing in the doorway. In his hand was an automatic.
The Baron did not stir. Mervin’s eyes were hard, now, showing no softness.
‘Take off your mask.’
Mannering obeyed. There was no object in refusing, and no one would recognise him as Mannering. Mervin nodded.
‘A surprise, my friend? You perceive the impossible?’
‘The unlikely,’ Mannering said with an effort.
‘Ah. So you believe that all things have a material explanation, Baron? I could discuss the matter at some length, some of my experiences in the Darker World would, I am sure, interest you. But at the moment I had best concern myself with facts. You are in an extremely difficult position – but of course you realise that.’