Sport For The Baron

by John Creasey

  “I think I could help you to forget him,” she said.

  Mannering smiled. “I have an idea you could, too.”

  “Do you want to forget?”

  His thoughts were distracted by a mental image of Nathaniel Brutus’s blazing eyes, and the way the Australian had behaved at the airport. He did want to forget both the man and everything that had followed since his first meeting with him.

  “Yes,” he said.

  The woman’s eyes were triumphant.

  “For five minutes, an hour, a day, or a night?”

  Mannering did not know why, but suddenly he was wary. He studied her more closely, and tried to concentrate. It was lack of concentration that had landed him in this situation.

  “What difference does it make?”

  “Five minutes, and the car would do. An hour, and we ought to find a secluded nook. For a night . . .” She broke off.

  He had no doubt at all that she was laughing at him-as Brutus had laughed-putting on a very good act; she might or might not mean all she was implying, but apparently she had good reason for wanting to make him believe she did. What reason could she have? Who was she? Was it coincidence that she had passed him? From those questions it was a short step to wondering whether she had followed him from the airport, and once the suspicion was in his mind it became almost a certainty. Should he challenge her? Or should he play along for a while, and see how far she would go? Although the doubts were so clear in his mind, he enjoyed looking at her, enjoyed her feminine provocation.

  “And where would you suggest for a night?” he asked.

  “Must I think of everything?”

  “I thought you might have a little nest nearby.”

  “I haven’t,” she said. “Isn’t that a pity?” She slid slowly backwards in her seat, and opened the jacket of the suit. She had a fine bosom, and wanted him to know this. It was true that a high neckline could be more alluring than a deep plunge. She rested her hand on the back of her seat in such a way that she had to look at him sideways, and there was a seductive hint of languor in her manner.

  “You must get tired of hearing it,” she said, “but you’re a remarkably handsome man.”

  “And you are a most intriguing woman.”

  “Why don’t you come down and sit with me?”

  “My legs are too long.”

  She shifted her position slightly, and sat up. Mannering opened his door and got out of the car, so that as she came from hers, their bodies touched. She meant them to touch; and with a shock of realization he knew that it was what he wanted. She turned her face upwards towards him, invitingly. With half of his mind he thought: She’s a Delilah. She followed me. And with the other half of his mind he thought: She’s lovely, she’s desirable. With a twinge of conscience he thought of Lorna-not Lorna at her best but staring at him censoriously, suspiciously.

  His car door was open, and so was that of the M.G., making a kind of trap or compartment, so that the woman and he were forced to stand close together. She held her head back; and for a moment he glimpsed a long, slender white throat. Then he lowered his head and brushed her cheek with his lips, sliding his arm round her. He could feel the pressure of her demanding body.

  “You’re very beautiful,” he whispered.

  “You’re very handsome.”

  “What newspaper do you represent?” he asked in the same whispering voice, so that at first it must have sounded like another endearment, another stage in this strange seduction. He knew that at first she did not understand, but suddenly her body stiffened.

  Slowly, she said: “How did you know?”

  “I don’t believe you’re what you’re pretending to be.”

  “A whore?”

  “You used the word,” said Mannering. “Which newspaper?”

  “The Talebearer,” she answered. That was a kind of Private Eye which had won big sales and popularity because of its debunking of idols and its glorification of sex.

  “Were you at Catesby’s today?”

  “Wouldn’t you have recognized me?”

  “I wasn’t myself at Catesby’s,” Mannering said. “When did you begin to follow me?”

  “When you left Quinn’s.”

  “Your Editor was quick off the mark.”

  “The man who wrote that piece about you in the Globe telephoned him.”

  “And the Editor was sure you could write one even more malicious.”

  “Better,” she said. “Much better. I had a special reason.”

  “May I know what it is?”

  “I’m Australian,” she said. “And I’m in London on a visit. Anything that happens to an Australian is big news down under.”

  “So I’m told,” Mannering said. “Is there an Australian edition of the Talebearer?”

  “I freelance,” she told him.

  He was still holding her. He didn’t let her go because he thought that if he stayed as he was she might talk more freely. There was a kind of intimacy, and now her body had relaxed again, soft yet firm. He moved his head so that he could look into her eyes.

  “And you were prepared to face the fate worse than death to get your story.”

  “John,” she said, “even you can’t be as old-fashioned as that.”

  “Old-fashioned!”

  “You can’t believe that I would believe anything we did together was worse than death.”

  Slowly he answered: “I suppose not.”

  “In fact,” she said, “I think it would be wonderful.”

  “Yes,” Mannering agreed. “I’m sure it would be. What did the Talebearer Editor tell you to do?”

  “To dig and dig and dig.”

  “So as to find the real dirt?”

  “The real truth,” she corrected.

  “What did he expect you to find?”

  She gave a little laugh.

  “A man of unusual honour. In fact. . .” she moved to free herself and Mannering did not stop her “-he wagered me two to one that I couldn’t make you compromise yourself with me.”

  “So,” said Mannering.

  “You sound almost disappointed.”

  “I didn’t expect the Editor of the Talebearer to be a man of such discernment.”

  She laughed and got back into the M.G.

  “John.”

  “Yes?”

  “Why did you betray my little fellow-countryman? To cut him down to size?”

  In a way that was what Lorna had said, and Mannering didn’t answer.

  “Or are you really in Sorenson’s pocket?” this woman asked.

  “What does your Editor think?”

  “He thinks you had some high-sounding motive, but he couldn’t imagine what it would be.”

  Mannering laughed again. “No motive,” he declared.

  “You don’t really expect me to believe that.”

  “Believed or not, it’s true.”

  She began to frown. “Can it be?”

  “The explanation is very simple,” Mannering said.

  “It will have to be convincing.”

  “I didn’t hear him,” said Mannering. He did not relish lying, but with a newspaper such as the Talebearer he felt he had no possible alternative. “He had given me a limit of six hundred thousand. He kept muttering something, but a man near me was shuffling, and my right ear isn’t too good. When it was too late, I realized he was saying I could go up to seven hundred thousand.” Mannering leaned back against the door of the Allard, and gave a smile which was part-rueful, part-amused. He could tell from the woman’s expression that she was already half-convinced.

  “You really mean that?”

  “I mean it.”

  “Good God!”

  “Will your Editor believe it?”

  “He’ll laugh his head off,” she said. “And I will have to buy him the best dinner in London.”

  “One of these days I’ll buy you a better one,” Mannering promised, smiling with genuine amusement at her almost comical expression. It
was a minute or two before she recovered; even then it wasn’t a full recovery.

  “Do you know who wrote that article in the Globe?” Mannering asked.

  “No.”

  Mannering was not sure that he believed her, but he let it pass.

  “Do you know why it was so vindictive?”

  “I don’t think it was vindictive at all,” she said. “It was just a piece of smart journalism, a semi-smear story that will hit most of the gossip columns. The reporter had an anti-establishment mind, if you want to look at it that way. The Man Brutus was a story in himself, everyone was interested in him, but he wouldn’t say a word, so he hardly got a mention. You were the next choice. It might have happened to anyone, except that. . .” she paused.

  “Don’t spare my feelings,” Mannering said.

  “Except that you didn’t make the bid,” she went on. “You’ve convinced me and you may convince anyone you talk to about it, but no one would believe it if they read it in cold print. You’re stuck with the Globe’s version.” She sat up straight, then switched on the engine. Above its beat, she finished: “I rather wish you weren’t.”

  7: “STUCK WITH IT”

  “Legally, of course, you can’t do much without taking a big risk,” said Toby Plender. He was a man with a Punchlike chin and the most Machiavellian mind in the legal profession. He and Mannering had been close friends for over thirty years. “The innuendo that you had an ulterior motive for not bidding may be there, but proving it’s there will be very difficult. You will get an apology, of course, but if you sue and the paper defends-as it certainly would-you’ll have grave difficulty, unless . . .”

  Lorna and Alice Plender, who had been talking about Jean Patou’s visit to London, stopped immediately. Mannering was acutely aware of Lorna’s expression, and the lack of animation in her eyes as she drew her brows together.

  “-unless you can persuade this Australian to say that he didn’t authorize you to go to seven hundred thousand.”

  “Of course,” said Plender’s wife, “it’s criminal.”

  “What do you mean?” asked Lorna sharply.

  Alice Plender’s face dropped, and Mannering and Plender chuckled.

  “I didn’t mean John had been criminal, I meant that it’s criminal that anyone can spend that kind of money on a few trinkets. Do you know. . .” her voice rose almost to a squeak . . .”that’s nearly three-quarters of a million pounds.”

  “Trinkets,” echoed Mannering. “That’s a mixture of sacrilege and heresy.”

  “No jewels could possibly be worth it.”

  “Some collections would fetch a lot more,” said Mannering. “So that’s the only way, Toby.”

  “Yes.”

  “It’s impossible,” Lorna said. “John can’t ask Brutus to deny that he authorized a bid up to seven hundred thousand pounds.”

  “In any case he’s a long way away,” Plender put in quickly. “Once you have an apology it will die down, John. Unless -” again he left a sentence hanging in the air.

  “Unless what?” demanded Lorna.

  “Forget it,” said Plender.

  “Toby, don’t you try to be evasive, too.”

  There was a sudden tensing in the atmosphere. For the first time the Plenders appeared to sense that all was not well between the Mannerings-which was as rare as it was remarkable. Toby hesitated, then laughed, and said: “What have you been keeping back, John?” Before there was any opportunity to answer, Plender went on: “I was going to say that there is a possibility that the Alda Estate might think they have a case against you for restricting the bidding. I don’t know what such a case would look like in court.”

  Mannering didn’t answer.

  Lorna said: “If only you’d made that bid!”

  “Yes,” Mannering said wryly. “If only.”

  “Why didn’t you?” asked Toby.

  “That’s the question we can’t really answer,” Lorna said.

  “Lorna,” said Mannering.

  She was in the bedroom, slipping out of her dress. She had a fine, near-statuesque figure, and for the evening had worn a support bra, not a fully-formed one. She was sideways to him, and reflected in a long mirror, her body was quite beautiful.

  He hadn’t said: “Lorna,” in that way for a long, long time.

  “Yes?” her voice was flat.

  “What’s really got into you?”

  “You know very well.”

  “I don’t know.”

  “Don’t try to make more of it than there is.”

  “Surely there’s plenty,” Mannering said.

  “That’s what I mean.” Lorna stretched out for her nightdress, slid the bra off, then pulled the nightdress over her head. She had done this a thousand times, and as often as not he would slip across and put his arms round her. Now, he simply stood on his side of the room, jacket off, collar and tie undone.

  “Lorna,” he tried again, “there must be something else.”

  “There isn’t.”

  “I tell you-”

  She turned to face him.

  “There’s no point in talking, John. We aren’t getting anywhere.”

  “There’s a lot of point in trying to. What has made you feel like this?”

  After a long pause, she said: “You don’t really believe that you shocked me this morning, do you?”

  “I know I upset you, but. . .”

  “No,” said Lorna sharply. “It was much more than upset. You shocked me. I thought there were some things as-as natural to you as breathing, some standards which were inviolable. In the old days, even in the days when you were the Baron, when you would open a safe-and steal a man’s fortune, you had these standards.”

  “Lorna,” Mannering said, “I sometimes stole a man’s jewels, but never a pound from a man who needed it. You know that.”

  “That’s what I’ve just said. There were inviolable standards.”

  “I haven’t done Brutus an iota of harm.”

  “That’s what’s wrong,” Lorna said. “That’s what I can’t understand. You honestly don’t think you have. If you’d seen his face . . .”

  “Oh, nonsense!”

  Very slowly, Lorna turned round, pulled an angora wool wrap round her shoulders, and picked up a pot of cold cream.

  “You really believe it is nonsense,” she said. “You don’t begin to accept the possibility that you destroyed something in Nathaniel Brutus.”

  “No, I don’t,” admitted Mannering. “It doesn’t make any sense to me. What on earth could I have destroyed?”

  “His faith in you for one thing.”

  “Darling, I really don’t know what’s got into you,” Mannering said. “How could he. . .”

  “You won’t even listen!” Lorna cried, and when Mannering stood very still, silenced and dismayed by the obvious depth of her feeling, she went on: “He trusted you. He wanted those jewels, and didn’t know what to do at Catesby’s, he knew he would be like a fish out of water. You set him the nearly impossible task of bringing you that credit by half-past ten; you didn’t really expect him to have the money or to get it in the time, did you? But he met all your conditions, he trusted a man whom he hardly knew, who must have seemed absolutely trustworthy, and-he was badly let down.”

  Mannering didn’t speak.

  “A bloody pommie let him down,” Lorna said carefully. “That’s what he’ll say, that’s how he’ll look at it. You are supposed to represent everything that’s best in British life, and -”

  “Lorna . . .” interrupted Mannering. “Darling. You’re building this up too high. You hardly knew the man. If he were to hear you talking like this he’d wonder what it was all about.”

  “Would he?” she asked. “Do you really think that?”

  “I’m sure it’s true.”

  “If you really believe it’s true, then there’s something different in you,” Lorna said. “A change I don’t much like.”

  What was she saying? What was she trying to do?<
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  When they were in bed, Mannering thought of the way they had behaved only that morning. He tried to think back, to see whether he could recall any new attitude, any change in her, before today. Once again he came up against the inescapable fact that since they had returned from Hong Kong, nearly a year before, each had become more and more involved in his or her own work? Why? Had they deliberately shut out some aspect in their lives which they did not want to acknowledge. He remembered that in Hong Kong, and on the way back to England, they had been as ecstatically in love as ever in their lives, a rebirth of passion caused by the fact that each had come very near death.

  Now - He had changed? Nonsense! She had changed.

  Or they had.

  It was a period when they had no living-in maid at their Chelsea flat, and in such a circumstance Mannering usually got up first, brought in the morning tea, the newspapers, and the post. They would sit and glance at letters and head-lines, and chat. Mannering woke a little after half-past seven, and glanced across-to an empty bed. He lay still for a few minutes, the near-quarrel of the previous night flooding his mind. Then Lorna looked in at the door.

  “Hallo,” she said. “Like some tea in bed?”

  “It sounds wonderful.”

  “I’ll bring it in five minutes.” She went off, and he wondered whether her mood had changed since last night; he had only caught a glimpse of her face, and thought she looked tired. He heard her bustling about, heard the click of the newspapers being taken out of the letter-box. When she came in, he could see that she was pale and her eyes were red-rimmed and glassy. She sat on the side of the bed, and handed him several letters from the tray. Business post usually went to the shop, but friends round the world were liable to write to him at Chelsea.

  There were two notes from dealers telling him they would soon be in London. He opened a third letter which had a London postmark, and read:

  Dear Sir,

  We have been requested by our clients, the Executors of the late Duke of Alda, to ask you to undertake to make good the difference between the sum obtained at today’s auction at Catesby’s and the amount of seven hundred thousand pounds, which figure we understand you were authorized to bid for Catalogue Item No. 27 at the auction.