Nest-Egg for the Baron

by John Creasey

  Copyright & Information

  Nest-Egg for the Baron

  First published in 1954

  © John Creasey Literary Management Ltd.; House of Stratus 1954-2014

  All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted, in any form, or by any means (electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise), without the prior permission of the publisher. Any person who does any unauthorised act in relation to this publication may be liable to criminal prosecution and civil claims for damages.

  The right of John Creasey to be identified as the author of this work has been asserted.

  This edition published in 2014 by House of Stratus, an imprint of

  Stratus Books Ltd., Lisandra House, Fore Street, Looe,

  Cornwall, PL13 1AD, UK.

  Typeset by House of Stratus.

  A catalogue record for this book is available from the British Library and the Library of Congress.

  EAN ISBN Edition

  075513611X 9780755136117 Print

  0755141997 9780755141999 Kindle

  0755137787 9780755137787 Epub

  0755145895 9780755145898 Epdf

  This is a fictional work and all characters are drawn from the author’s imagination.

  Any resemblance or similarities to persons either living or dead are entirely coincidental.

  www.houseofstratus.com

  About the Author

  John Creasey – Master Storyteller - was born in Surrey, England in 1908 into a poor family in which there were nine children, John Creasey grew up to be a true master story teller and international sensation. His more than 600 crime, mystery and thriller titles have now sold 80 million copies in 25 languages. These include many popular series such as Gideon of Scotland Yard, The Toff, Dr Palfrey and The Baron.

  Creasey wrote under many pseudonyms, explaining that booksellers had complained he totally dominated the ‘C’ section in stores. They included:

  Gordon Ashe, M E Cooke, Norman Deane, Robert Caine Frazer, Patrick Gill, Michael Halliday, Charles Hogarth, Brian Hope, Colin Hughes, Kyle Hunt, Abel Mann, Peter Manton, J J Marric, Richard Martin, Rodney Mattheson, Anthony Morton and Jeremy York.

  Never one to sit still, Creasey had a strong social conscience, and stood for Parliament several times, along with founding the One Party Alliance which promoted the idea of government by a coalition of the best minds from across the political spectrum.

  He also founded the British Crime Writers’ Association, which to this day celebrates outstanding crime writing. The Mystery Writers of America bestowed upon him the Edgar Award for best novel and then in 1969 the ultimate Grand Master Award. John Creasey’s stories are as compelling today as ever.

  Chapter One

  Beauty and the Beast

  The girl was so young and pretty, and the man so old and plain. “Plain”, in fact, was the word which only the kind of heart would have applied. He was ugly. He had a big, veiny, bulbous nose, and thick, coarse lips; little eyes which seemed buried in their sockets; and he was painfully thin. Nature, warmly generous with gifts to the girl’s face and figure, had savaged the old man wickedly, for he had a humped back and short legs; pity stirred easily for him, once revulsion was past.

  The girl walked with him, slowly. His back was bent, hers beautifully straight; he limped, she had the grace of the very young. Her forearm, rounded and golden brown, was without a blemish; his hand, grasping it, was like a claw made out of rotting leather. He clasped her tightly, as if without her help he would not be able to move along.

  Most who saw them, stared.

  Even Mannering did.

  He was coming from the other direction. Their backs were towards Bond Street, with its swift ebb and flow of traffic, scurrying people, and fashions. It was still a shopping place for the very rich, although no longer exclusively for them.

  Mannering faced the old man and the young woman. Half-way between him and the strange couple was his shop, Quinns, with its narrow window and oiled dark-oak fascia board with the legend Quinns in old English lettering, and gold paint. The shop was famous and, for different reasons, so was Mannering. Yet strangers would have been intrigued as he drew nearer the couple, for he was in sharp contrast to the old man. Tall, tanned, handsome – and all these enough to be striking.

  The few people in Hart Row, a narrow street where several exclusive shops attracted the knowing as well as the wealthy, saw the couple become a trio just outside Quinns. In the window a jewelled crown was displayed upon black velvet. The jewels caught the light and showed a hundred colours; gold glittered, and in the centre of the crown was a single diamond which might have been first cousin to the Koh-i-noor. It was worth a fortune, although the dynasty for which it had been wrought and set by craftsmen of an Oriental kingdom had long since perished.

  Until that moment no single person had passed Quinns without looking at the crown. Most had lingered. A surprising number had remarked that it couldn’t be real – no one would take a risk with a genuine jewelled crown in a shop window. All these comments had been heard inside by Mannering’s assistants, for an elaborate loudspeaker system had been installed to enable a man at the back of the shop to hear what was said outside; that was one of Mannering’s many precautions against burglary.

  Everyone near by, then, had paused to look at the crown; three women, two of them Americans, were at the window now. The old man and the girl passed the window. The old man glanced at the crown, then looked away, and said: “This is the place, Miranda.”

  The girl did not speak.

  “I hope, I only hope, that we can trust them.”

  The girl said nothing.

  She glanced at Mannering, but had no more interest in him than the man had in the crown of such splendour. Her eyes were blue, so clear and bright that Mannering was reminded of the sea in Naples Bay on a summer day when Vesuvius brooded and Capri crowned the Mediterranean loveliness. Her hair was fair, a pale-gold colour, brushed straight back from her forehead and hanging below her shoulders. It was like a golden cloak, and glistened just as beautifully as the crown.

  She wore a simply cut linen dress of apple-green, with a wide yellow belt and yellow shoes, and she carried a small pigskin dresscase.

  “The man I want to see,” said the old man, “is Mannering himself, John Mannering. We must insist, Miranda.”

  Miranda did not speak.

  The old man’s voice was quite remarkable, especially because it was so unexpected. A harsh, croaking sound would have seemed natural; in fact, he had a soft, smooth, cultured tone, and spoke as if he were aware that his voice was his great asset, and must be used with caution and with skill.

  Mannering drew back.

  Sylvester, a grey-haired man with the manners of a courtier, was on the other side of the door. He opened it. The girl freed her arm, took the old man’s elbow, and thrust him gently inside. Sylvester bowed. The old man shot a swift, suspicious look at him from those dark, buried eyes. He was breathing heavily, and a beading of sweat fringed his lined forehead.

  “Good afternoon, sir,” welcomed Sylvester. “Will you please sit down? It’s very warm—a tiring day.”

  He pushed a chair forward.

  The girl glanced at him gratefully, and helped the old and ugly man to sit down.

  “Thank you, thank you,” said the man. The girl did not speak. “I wish to see Mr. Mannering. Is he in, please?”

  Mannering was still outside the door.

  “He isn’t at the moment, but I expect him back soon,” Sylvester said.

  “Then we will wait.”

  “You’re very welcome, sir.” Sylvester bowed, and moved a little to one side. “If you care to lo
ok round, you will be equally welcome.”

  “I haven’t come to buy,” said the little old man testily; “I’ve come to sell.”

  “We would have great difficulty in selling if we didn’t sometimes buy,” said Sylvester, with the same practised courtesy. He glanced at the girl’s pigskin case, as if wondering what was inside. “I will tell you the moment Mr. Mannering arrives.”

  The old man nodded.

  The girl still didn’t speak.

  Although both looked round, neither of the callers paid particular attention to the shop or its contents. Theirs was the quick, casual gaze of someone who was not really interested, who knew that nothing here was likely to hold their attention. Some beautiful antiques, the oldest dating back to the thirteenth century, some cabinets with a golden sheen almost as beautiful as the girl’s hair, a suit of mail armour once worn by a jousting knight – and on the walls, paintings by masters, all old and of divers sizes, would have fascinated connoisseurs and anyone with even a little knowledge of the past; and of beauty.

  The lovely girl and the ugly old man looked from one to another with impatient, fleeting interest. They treated a Rubens and a Constable with equal indifference. Glass showcases held rare jewels and jewelled objets d’art, one filled with pieces matching the crown and coming from the same forgotten Court. But none of this interested the couple.

  Mannering observed all this, from the street.

  Sylvester disappeared.

  A young man sat at the back of the shop, listening to the comments of the people outside. Then Mannering came in, nodded briskly at the couple, and went to his office, to the right at the end of the long, narrow shop.

  Sylvester was waiting.

  “They asked to see you personally, sir.”

  “Did they say why?” Mannering rounded a bow-fronted Queen Anne desk, and sat down as he spoke.

  Sylvester stood near the door, venerable with age, courtly of voice as well as manner; a little too English to be true.

  “The old man says they’ve come to sell,” he said. “I didn’t ask for details; I had a feeling that the man would probably resent it. He appears to be nervous, and when outside said that he hoped that we could be trusted!”

  Mannering grinned.

  “What did the girl say?”

  “She hasn’t uttered a word,” Sylvester told Mannering.

  “If you’d like me to find out why—”

  “I’ll see them at once, I think,” decided Mannering, and gave a crooked smile. “She’s really something out of the top drawer.”

  “Very lovely indeed, sir.” Sylvester hesitated. “It’s strange that she hasn’t yet uttered a syllable.”

  “Shy, too!”

  “Have you noticed,” asked Sylvester reflectively, “that she has a strange kind of calmness?”

  “Strange?”

  “It impresses me that way.”

  “Bring them along,” said Mannering, “and I’ll tell you later if I agree.”

  He pushed his chair back a little and glanced up at an oil-painting on the wall opposite. His own face looked down at him – above the dress, almost the regalia, of a Regency buck. There he was, with many colourful frills and furbelows and a sword in its scabbard, a gleam in his eye, and an amused twist at his lips. His wife had painted it.

  “As you ought to be and often wish you were,” she had said when he’d first seen it.

  The door opened.

  “Mr. Smith, sir,” said Sylvester, with faint emphasis, “and Miss Miranda Smith.”

  Mannering rose to greet them.

  The girl’s pale hand was on the old man’s crooked elbow, as if she were urging him forward and giving him the courage to move. Once they were inside, the door closed on Sylvester. By Mannering’s foot was a switch; when it was down, Sylvester could hear every word and every sound in the office; another of the many precautions which Mannering’s nimble wits and insurance-company stipulations conspired to create.

  But this was obviously just a harmless couple.

  Mannering pressed the switch down; Sylvester heard a rustle of movement, a few words of greeting, and then: “Miranda,” said the old man, “let me have that case.”

  He took it from her, and put it on the desk. His breathing was a little harsh. The deep-set eyes held a strange, excited glint. None of this appeared to affect the girl at all. She sat erect and unmoving, on an upright chair; long ago, she had been taught to carry herself well, and now the poise came naturally. She had a nice figure, too, not heavy, perhaps not fully developed; the figure of a girl of nineteen or twenty who would soon come to womanhood.

  She did not speak.

  Glancing at her, Mannering saw what Sylvester meant. Hers was a strange calmness; almost unnatural. Yet everything else about her was so natural and lovely that the word “strange” seemed wrongly applied.

  “Mr. Mannering,” said the old man, “I’ve come to you because I’m told you are an honest man.”

  “I hope you haven’t been misinformed,” said Mannering, promptly and with proper gravity.

  “So do I. Soon find out,” said the old man. His voice was a little forced now, but was still remarkable for its clear tone. “My name’s Smith.”

  “So I understand.”

  “Pendexter Smith.”

  “Really,” said Mannering, as if the first name conveyed a lot to him and he now fully understood the identity of his visitor. He didn’t. Sylvester had thrown doubt on the “Smith” with the faint emphasis; it was easy to forget that there were a great number of people really named Smith but few who had been christened Pendexter. “How can I help you, Mr. Smith?”

  “I have something to sell,” Pendexter Smith announced.

  He set the small case on his knees, then took a ring of keys from his side pocket. It was a big bunch, clinking and winking. He selected a key swiftly. His fingers had that look of rotting leather, there were ridged, blue veins and livery-brown spots on his hands; yet the fingers were nimble as he thrust the key into the lock of the case and turned it.

  The lock clicked.

  He didn’t open the case, but took the key out, thrust the bunch back into his pocket, and then peered at Mannering. His ugliness became more apparent; even to Mannering, who was now getting used to him, he was almost repellent. The deep-set eyes glittered like something reflecting the light a long way off. His thick, flat lips were turned back. He was almost hideous as he leaned forward, narrow, pointed chin stabbing, narrow shoulders hunched; he reminded Mannering of a vulture.

  “In this case I’ve got something worth a hundred thousand pounds,” he said, gustily. “I wish to sell it quickly, for as much as I can get. Will you find a buyer?”

  The girl looked at Mannering, her blue eyes darker in the room, unsmiling, calm, serene.

  Chapter Two

  The Golden Eggs

  “I’ll try to find a buyer,” Mannering said quietly, “but if it’s worth that money, it may take a little while.”

  For the first time, he wondered if the old man were quite right in the head. The girl’s manner was beginning to disturb him, too; Sylvester was right, her pose wasn’t natural; it was too child-like. Yet he recalled the way in which she had taken the old man’s elbow and guided him into the shop; and, later, into the office. She had known what she was doing then.

  “May I see what it is?” asked Mannering, mildly.

  The old man placed his two hands on the top of the little brown case. The swollen joints made the hands and fingers look more bony and much thinner even than they were. He pressed against the case possessively, giving the impression that for a moment he was afraid.

  “I’ll show you,” he promised. “I’ll show you, but you don’t believe what I say, do you?”

  “About what?”

  “That what I have here is worth a hundred thousand pounds.”

  “Until I’ve seen it—”

  “All the same,” said the old man, with a kind of bitter fierceness. “All dealers are the sa
me, they deny the value, beat you down, cheat, and swindle, they’d cheat their own kith and kin!”

  As nearly as they could, his buried eyes glared, as if he expected an angry response, Mannering on his dignity.

  Mannering smiled amiably, and said, “Dreadful lot, aren’t we?”

  “In my experience—” began Pendexter Smith, but broke off abruptly. “All right, all right, I’ll show you what I have. But mind you” – he raised one hand, to point a waggling finger – “I don’t trust you.”

  “I don’t blame you!”

  Throughout all this, the lovely girl sat erect and still, her hands clasped lightly in her lap. They were nice hands, and the long, thin fingers were tipped with filbert-shaped nails which had neither coloured nor natural varnish to make them glisten. She wore just a touch of lipstick and a little powder; no rouge at all. The serenity of her blue eyes had not changed. She looked now at the old man, now at Mannering, half questioning – as if she were interested in what was passing between them, but had no desire to speak.

  Was she – dumb?

  “If I leave them in your charge I’ll want every possible kind of assurance that they’ll be looked after,” Pendexter Smith went on. “Don’t think I’ll let you get away with anything.”

  “I hope you won’t.” Mannering was amiably emphatic.

  The old man looked as if he didn’t quite understand this attitude; he remained suspicious and wary, and it was a long time before he lifted the lid of the case. Then he did so slowly. His manner created a sharper interest in Mannering; it was as if he were going to reveal something which was breathlessly beautiful and really worth a fortune. The odds were all against that; much more likely he was a bit touched, and had a trifle which he had invested with a fabulous value. Yet his manner made Mannering lean forward with quickening interest, and even made his heart beat faster.

  The girl leaned forward, too, her eyes glistening with sudden excitement.

  The old man threw back the lid.