by John Creasey
Copyright & Information
Sport for The Baron
First published in 1966
Copyright: John Creasey Literary Management Ltd.; House of Stratus 1966-2010
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 2010 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
0755118561 9780755118564 Print
0755125614 9780755125616 Pdf
0755125622 9780755125623 Kindle/Mobi
0755125630 9780755125630 Epub
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.
Creasy 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.
1: “HEY, SPORT”
The man stood in Hart Row, that narrow, quaint and picturesque street in the heart of Mayfair, and looked in the window of Quinn’s. It was as if today had burst rudely into yesterday. The man said nothing, but stared at the jewels displayed on rich black velvet, some of the most beautiful jewels in the world, as well as some of the most ancient and historic. As he watched, the scintillations from the gems caught his bright blue eyes; eyes which in a woman would be called beautiful. In a strange way, although he was both still and silent, he gave an impression of perpetual motion.
The man was not particularly tall nor broad, but he was young and there was a wiry strength about him. He wore a creased grey suit, and a pink shirt. The suit was too small for him, and consequently, his hands looked larger than they would otherwise have done. His feet did, too, partly because the trousers were too short, partly because his new, size eight brown shoes had enormous crepe-rubber soles. As his gaze darted from jewel to jewel, his lips worked as if he were talking excitedly to himself.
Suddenly, he pushed open the door of Quinn’s and went in. A thin sliver of morning sunlight streamed before him, although sunlight had no place in this long, shadowed holy of holies where highly-polished walnut and cherry-wood, mahogany and oak, gleamed in lights half-concealed by ancient beams and uneven walls. On either side were showcases containing silver and gold, jewels and miniatures, from Europe and the Orient, each precious in antiquity, most of them beautiful. On the walls were mirrors, their frames gilded, jewel-encrusted, and enamelled. There were also paintings, on panels and on canvas, all old, all worthy of any wall, none suffering in comparison with the Vermeer and the Titian which were allotted large spaces to themselves.
The door swung to behind the man.
He did not know that he had locked himself in, and could only get out if one of the three men in Quinn’s pressed a concealed control. Nor did he know that he had been closely observed since he had appeared at the window and that the sound of his footsteps had come clearly into Quinn’s through a loud-speaker which made it possible to overhear everything within a certain vicinity. Thieves, talking together, often had cause to regret their last-minute exchanges, and this self-locking device and the loud-speaker equipment had prevented many a daytime raid on this renowned antique shop.
At that time, the antiques, the jewels and the objets d’art in Quinn’s had a value of over a million pounds; no company would accept the risk of insurance without knowing that extreme precautions were taken.
Now, two men, one old and grey, one young and sleek, both immaculate in dark suits and stiff white collars, converged on the man who had just entered, while a third stood some distance off, watchful and wary.
The caller’s features were subdued by the shadows, but nothing could subdue his eyes. He turned to the older, more authoritative man: “Hey, sport. How much for the stuff in the window?”
There was a moment of almost shocked silence before the grey-haired man smiled and the younger slowly relaxed. Quinn’s, though accorded an almost sacred convention, was not sacrosanct, and this visitor’s voice had a vitality which gave the impression that whatever he wanted, he took for granted he could get.
“What’s funny?” he demanded.
The older man, Larraby the manager, answered without hesitation.
“It isn’t customary to refer to such jewels as ‘stuff’, sir.”
“O.K., sport. How much are those jewels in the window?”
“I’m afraid no price has been set upon them,” Larraby answered.
“Don’t give me that,” the man said in annoyance. “This is a shop, isn’t it?”
“It is indeed, sir.”
“And those goods are in the shop window.”
“They are on display prior to auction,” Larraby informed him. “They are part of the late Duke of Alda’s insignia, and the Duke was a friend of Mr. Mannering.”
The stranger’s eyes flashed his question before his lips uttered it.
“Who is Mannering?”
“The owner of Quinn’s, sir.”
“What’s Quinn’s, sport?”
“This establish . . . - this shop, sir.”
The inquisitive visitor frowned, so that his eyes lost a little of their brightness, but for an instant only. The next moment he threw back his head and gave a deep roar of laughter, and such was the nature of the man that obviously he was laughing at himself. He shifted backward a little, and leaned against a bow-shaped Queen Anne dressing-table, also part of the Duke of Alda’s estate; a dozen duchesses had sat in front of that dressing-table and preened themselves in the small wing mirror which stood on top of it.
“So I can’t read,” the caller said, and the laughter died away into a chuckle. “This Mannering, sport.”
“Yes?”
“Is he in?”
“I’m not sure, sir.”
“Can’t you find out?”
“Very quickly, sir, but I myself may be able
to give you any information you require.”
“Not a hope,” said the visitor. “I want to know the price of those jewels in the window.”
Larraby hesitated, glanced at the nearby assistant, looked back at the caller, and asked: “I will find out if Mr. Mannering is in, sir. What is your name, please?”
“Brutus.”
“I beg your pardon?”
“You got it right, sport. Brutus. Think of Caesar.”
Larraby looked at him pensively, then smiled almost deprecatingly, turned away and said: “I won’t keep you long, Mr. Brutus.” He walked sedately the length of the long passage, carpeted with Persian runners of great price, and disappeared behind what appeared to be a partition. This partition was in fact the back of a Welsh dresser which some said had once graced Harlech Castle. Behind it, on the flat dresser surface, were papers, telephones, reference books and files. On the right was a narrow doorway, beautifully arched, of centuries-old oak. This door was closed. Larraby picked up a telephone, and said quietly: “I am sorry to worry you, sir.”
“That’s all right, Josh,” a man responded. “What is it?”
“May I come in?”
“Yes,” said John Mannering, into his telephone. “In one minute.”
He was in a small office, approached through the doorway, standing by an opening in the floor in the corner diagonally opposite the door. A flight of concrete steps led down from this opening, which was about a yard square, to the strong-rooms beneath; mere most of Quinn’s most valuable stock was housed. Mannering had just been down to these strong-rooms to put away a set of Thai masks. Now, he moved a book on a shelf above the opening, and pressed a spot on the wall beyond it. A faint whirring sound followed and the opening began to grow smaller, as a section of the floor itself moved. In a few seconds it had disappeared, and it was almost impossible to see the joins. Mannering kicked a rich Mysore carpet into position, for further concealment, and stepped to his Queen Anne desk, bow-shaped, like the Alda dressing-table. He pressed a button beneath the edge of the desk, and there was a faint click. Almost at once the arched door opened, and Larraby came in.
“Hallo, Josh,” Mannering said. “Who’s out there?”
“A Mr. Brutus, sir,” said Larraby. “From Australia, I believe.”
Mannering frowned.
“Do we know him?”
“No, and some might say that we may not wish to,” said Larraby.
“A rough diamond, is he?” Mannering mused.
“I think he’s rather intriguing,” Larraby ventured. He had a gentle voice and a persuasive manner. “He wishes to know the price of the ‘stuff’ in the window.”
This created the sensation he had expected. “Stuff!” echoed Mannering, and he reacted as Larraby himself had reacted earlier: he smiled. Laughter crinkled the corners of his eyes, which were hazel in colour, and made his strong face even more handsome than it was in repose. He was over six feet in height, lean, fit-looking, very well-proportioned.
“What did you tell him?” he asked.
“The truth, sir.”
“And he still isn’t satisfied?”
“No.”
“What do you make of him?”
“If I passed him in the street I would guess he was from a country of wide open spaces, who had managed to scrape up enough money to come here steerage.”
“Oh,” said Mannering, and he sat down. “Have all the precautions been taken?”
“Naturally, sir. He came by himself. We would know by now if anyone had followed him.”
“So you think he’s genuinely interested.”
“I think he may be a little short on top in the most harmless way, sir.”
“I’ll come and see him,” decided John Mannering.
Larraby raised a pale hand in a form of protest.
“Lady Bannington-Evans is due in five minutes or so, sir, and I promised to show her the Westphalian silver. If you could see Mr. Brutus in here ...”
When ‘Mr. Brutus’ entered the office, Mannering understood exactly what Larraby had meant. This man’s eyes had a clarity which hinted at the simplicity of the adult male whose mind was not fully, or perhaps conventionally, developed. A child’s eyes. But their appearance could well be misleading, and Mannering found it possible to imagine that laughter lurked in those bright blue depths.
Larraby murmured: “Mr. Brutus, sir,” and went out, closing the door.
Mannering moved forward, hand held out, aware of the long appraisal of those remarkable eyes, aware of the possibility that he was being laughed at. Brutus raised his own hand very slowly, took Mannering’s, and gave it a long, hard squeeze.
“Pleased to meet you,” he said.
“Come and sit down.” Mannering pointed to a chair, marvelled at the flawlessness, the deep even tan, of Brutus’s complexion. His features were sharp, his face thin, almost lantern-jawed. Given more flesh, he would be as handsome in a clear-cut way as Mannering. His hair was lank and straw-coloured; brushed straight back from a high forehead. Mannering did not agree with Larraby on one count; whatever else, this man was not simple-minded. He was probably unsophisticated, even naive; but he was certainly no fool.
“You’re interested in the Alda insignia?” Mannering said.
“I’m interested in the jewels in the window,” corrected Brutus.
“That’s the same thing,” Mannering told him.
Brutus did not actually say that he disbelieved him, but looked sceptical.
“How much will they fetch at the auction?” he inquired.
“That’s anybody’s guess, but at least half-a-million pounds Australian.”
Brutus smiled broadly, showing good teeth.
“So you’ve placed me, Mr. Mannering.”
“I think I know which part of the world you’ve come from.”
“If you say I’ve come from the best country in the world I won’t argue with you.” Brutus paused. “Half-a-million Australian.” He seemed to sing the words. “Can you sell them before the auction?”
“No.”
“Isn’t there a reserve?”
Any suspicion that Brutus might be simple or even ingenuous was removed even further from Mannering’s mind; but in another respect he had the same impression as the men in the shop: that whatever this man wanted, he set out to obtain.
“Yes,” Mannering said.
“So if someone offered ten per cent above the reserve, why wouldn’t you sell?”
Mannering hesitated, laughed, picked up a cigarette-box and offered it.
“Don’t use ‘em,” said Brutus.
Mannering looked him squarely in the eyes.
“Are you proposing to offer ten per cent above the reserve for those jewels, Mr. Brutus?”
Brutus grinned very broadly and unexpectedly; now Mannering was almost certain he was being laughed at.
“So you’re calling my bluff, sport.”
“That is so,” Mannering agreed mildly.
“Yes,” said Brutus.
“Yes what?”
“Those jewels are real beauts,” declared Brutus; he might have been talking about black eyes. “If you guarantee they’re gen-u-ine, I offer the reserve plus ten.” He grinned again, obviously enjoying himself. Mannering had some difficulty in concealing a slight feeling of discomfiture, even embarrassment. “Now you call my bluff again, sport. Ask me if I’ve got the money.”
A long, prolonged silence followed in the small office; the office which had seen so many remarkable deals, deals including a sale of a million pounds-worth of jewellery and objets d’art, completed in five minutes.
Quietly, Mannering broke the silence.
“If you have the money, Mr. Brutus, my strong advice is that you hold on to it and do not spend it on the Alda insignia.”
At least he had the satisfaction of seeing this self-possessed young man taken aback. The light faded from Brutus’s eyes for a moment, and he appeared to be puzzled. It was a long time before he answered-time
in which Larraby and his assistants were showing Lady Bannington-Evans some beautiful hand-wrought silver in the shop which seemed almost, to the two protagonists, a thousand miles away.
Brutus’s frown faded, and he asked quite matter-of-factly: “Just give me one good reason for holding onto my dough, sport. Then I’ll tell you whether I’ve got enough to pay for the stuff in the window.”
2: MILLIONAIRE OR WINDBAG?
Mannering was no longer in doubt; Brutus had been laughing at him all the time; something in his, Mannering’s, manner, something at Quinn’s, amused the bright-eyed Australian. It was even possible that he had come here simply for a practical joke, for Australians loved ribbing. One other thing was certain to him, as to Larraby; there was some very likeable quality in Brutus.
Mannering glanced at his watch; it was nearly four o’clock. He lifted the telephone and ordered tea and cakes. Then putting down the receiver he waited, as before, for comment, but Brutus was obviously prepared to outstare and outwait him.
“One question,” he went on at last.
“You ask and I’ll answer.”
“Is Brutus your real name?”
The Australian wrinkled his nose.
“Don’t blame me, but my given name is Nathaniel Brutus.”
“Don’t you think your parents did well by you in that?” asked Mannering.
Brutus now placed a ringer along the side of his nose, a gesture which gave him a markedly different appearance, as if his face was slightly askew. He was given to silences, and had a trick of waiting until the pause became almost unbearable before breaking it. Just as Mannering began to feel impatient, Brutus said: “Don’t blame my ma and pa, they didn’t give me the name.” He paused. “They didn’t give me any name.” He paused again: “The orphanage, that’s who you have to blame for it.”
Mannering thought: I’ll have to be careful, I’m getting deeper and deeper into what could be very awkward. He was quite sure that any conventional condolence or comment would win no favour, so he said: “Why Nathaniel?”
