Sport For The Baron

by John Creasey

  Something light struck his cheek, there was a little crack of sound, then vapour bit at his eyes and his nose and his mouth.

  9: “GO HOME”

  As Mannering staggered back, pain screaming through him, Lorna cried out behind him, and there was a scuffle and some shouting outside the room. Mannering was oblivious of it, oblivious of everything but the clawing agony and the fact that he could not take breath without drawing the pain down into his chest and his lungs. Hands at his eyes, he felt as if he were going round and round and would fall, as if he were losing his senses. Suddenly he was vaguely aware of strong hands supporting him, of voices, of being half-led, half-dragged across the room, of being forced to sit down. The voices became clearer.

  “It’s not acid.”

  “How can you be sure?”

  “It would show by now. It’s tear gas.”

  “Tear gas!”

  It was agony.

  There was the sound of running water, of splashing, then firm hands touched his sides and his ribs. He was being thrust forward. The pain seemed to worsen, tearing scorching pain. There was pressure at the back of his head.

  Lorna said: “Are you sure?”

  “Yes. Gently.”

  “Won’t it hurt?”

  It was agony.

  “Not so much. Here, let me do it.”

  “No, I-I will.”

  Mannering was just aware that his head was being held over a brimming wash-basin. Then his face was thrust into the water, very gently. It was agony. He started back, but the man he had never seen held his head so that he could not get away.

  Gently, gently, the cooling water touched him.

  Slowly, the pain eased.

  It seemed a long time but in fact it was not very long before he was able to think coherently, could take an intelligible part in what was going on. First, he was moved back, then helped to stand up. Next his jacket was taken off and his collar and tie loosened; the front of his shirt was ringing wet. He saw vague shapes reflected in the mirror.

  He said croakily: “I’m all right.”

  “Take it easy,” a man said. He had a deep, rather harsh, unmistakably Australian voice.

  “Can you see?” Lorna demanded tensely.

  “I’m-I’m beginning to.”

  “I told you, it was tear gas,” the man said. “How about moving into the bedroom, Mannering?”

  “All right.”

  The man supported him. As he went he could make out the shape of the window and of the wardrobe, the bed, the chairs. It was a large room. Soon he could make out Lorna, although her face was blurred. The man appeared huge. He began to talk, and at first it seemed like a monologue, as if he were talking to Lorna, but gradually it dawned on Mannering that he was speaking into a telephone.

  “. . . Yes . . . No, he’s not hurt. . . You bloody fools. .. Well, look for him, he had a false beard . . . yes, false . . . He looked about sixty and moved as if he was thirty ... I’ll be talking to him soon ... No, not badly ... No, he doesn’t need a doctor as far as I can tell . . . Tell the bloody newspapers what they can do with themselves.”

  There was a rattle and a ting as he rang off.

  He turned to Lorna, and now there was no rancour in his voice, no trace of the roughness with which he had spoken on the telephone.

  “The basket got away.”

  Lorna didn’t speak.

  “What’s it all about?” the man asked.

  “I wish I knew,” Lorna said bitterly.

  “Are you telling me you don’t?”

  “Yes, I am.”

  “That’s hard to believe.”

  Mannering made himself interrupt. His throat was sore, his mouth parched, and they hadn’t thought of offering him anything to drink. So the words came out hoarsely and with difficulty.

  “It’s the truth.”

  Lorna swung round from the window. “John!”

  “I could do with some water,” Mannering said.

  “Oh, what a fool I am!” Lorna hurried out of the room, while a very big man stood near the window studying Mannering, who could now see him much more clearly. A plain-clothes policeman was a plain-clothes policeman in either hemisphere, and equally welcome.

  “So you don’t know what it’s about?” he said.

  “Only what I read in the papers,” said Mannering. He knew that it would be some time before he felt himself again, but he was free from the fear that serious injury might follow the attack. “Presumably policemen read the newspapers.”

  The man grinned. “When they have the time.” He had a broad, ruddy face, an aggressive chin, eyes of periwinkle blue, a full, not very well-shaped mouth, a comparatively small, well-shaped nose. “I’m Inspector Wetherby. C.I.B. That doesn’t seem to surprise you.”

  “It doesn’t,” Mannering said.

  “Why not?”

  For the first time since the attack, Mannering felt like smiling.

  “I’ve heard you and I’ve seen you,” he said.

  Wetherby’s rather big, very white teeth made his grin startlingly noticeable.

  “Always recognize a copper, eh?”

  Lorna came in with a glass of water, and Mannering saw that it was slightly tinged with a pink mouth-wash. When he took a sip, it was warm and soothing. He knew that he must look as much of a wreck as he felt, but at least his mind was working.

  “That’s just right,” he said.

  “I shouldn’t talk,” advised Lorna. “I should rest.”

  “I’m all right,” Mannering said, and went on irritably, “Why doesn’t someone sit down?” Both of them sat. “Why did you come?” Mannering asked the detective.

  Wetherby said: “Still telling me you don’t know?”

  “We don’t know,” Mannering insisted with restrained vehemence.

  “Then it’s time someone told you,” Wetherby said. “Two people telephoned the Sun and a third telephoned police headquarters. They all made threats on your life.” His eyes bored steadily and Mannering knew that the man was appraising him very closely, trying to make sure whether the announcement was indeed a shock.

  Mannering said disbelievingly: “What?”

  “Oh, God,” Lorna said, and it was like an invocation.

  Wetherby turned from Mannering to her, and raised his hands, then dropped them. There was a humorous twist to his lips.

  “I accept it, you didn’t know.”

  “Who made the threat?” demanded Mannering.

  “I wish we knew.”

  “How seriously do you take it?” Mannering asked.

  “The question is, how seriously do you?” said Wetherby. “We don’t want a prominent visitor from England in trouble or in danger, do we? It wouldn’t be good for public relations.” He was still smiling, as if at some inner knowledge. “We thought you would know what the threats were about.”

  “I haven’t the faintest idea why anyone should want me dead.”

  “Who says they want you dead?”

  “You did,” Lorna interpolated sharply.

  “I said there were three telephone calls, which may have been made by the same person, uttering threats against your life if you didn’t go home to England. And the joker who threw that tear-gas phial could have been the man who uttered the threats. He didn’t try to kill you. The letters. . .” Wetherby motioned to the littered desk. . .”don’t threaten to kill you. They tell you to go home.” He studied Lorna’s face first, then Mannering’s. “Who doesn’t want you here?”

  “I still don’t have the answer,” Mannering said.

  “How about Brutus?”

  “Would he care?” asked Mannering.

  “I don’t believe he would do this kind of thing,” Lorna said.

  It passed through Mannering’s mind then that Lorna sprang very quickly to the defence of Nathaniel Brutus, but he did not dwell on it. He was trying to imagine why anyone other than Brutus might want him to go home, and why they should go to such lengths to make him. He had a strange feeling: th
at it was all a gigantic hoax-from the beginning of the affair to this moment there was something unreal and artificial about it, except for one thing: it was actually happening.

  “Brutus might care,” Wetherby said.

  “What do you know about him?” Mannering asked.

  This time, Lorna didn’t speak, but Mannering had the impression that she waited tensely for the answer.

  “Nathaniel Brutus, Reform School boy made good.”

  “Reform?” Lorna gasped. “He said. . .”

  “Orphanage,” Wetherby finished for her. “A euphemism, Mrs. Mannering. I don’t say he didn’t have a raw deal. He was fifteen when he was caught stealing a sheep, out near Cowra. He was sent to the Reform School. No one really knows where he came from, all they know is that he ate about half of that sheep before he was caught.” Wetherby smothered a laugh. “Don’t give me that look, Mr. Mannering. It usually comes with the reminder that half our original population was transported for stealing sheep or less. The fact remains that Brutus was two years in the Reform School, and that he got work on a little sheep station when he came out.”

  “In spite of his record?” Mannering said, incredulously.

  Lorna was staring at the detective intently, even suspiciously.

  “Yes, sir. Station hands are hard to get, and if you work on one you don’t need to steal sheep, you can take as many as you need. Brutus worked until the old farmer gave him a tenth share. That’s common practice out in the sheeplands. And he kept on working. You know the truth about Nat Brutus? He had the Midas touch. He went from one fortune to another-always in sheep. Today that man owns more sheep than any other single person in Australia, maybe in the whole world. And they’re his. He cared so much about being sent away for stealing one sheep he set out to own more sheep than anyone else. And by God he did it. He acts timid and in some ways he is timid, but if he sets his mind on a thing, he does it. If I read the papers properly, he set his mind on getting something in England, and you stopped him.” Wetherby paused, moved to the table, picked up several of the letters and let them fall again, fluttering. “Brutus employs a hundred hands-boundary riders, sheep herders, grazers, stockmen, maintenance men, cooks. He could have arranged for all these letters. I don’t know anyone else who could, or would-if you don’t.”

  “I don’t,” Mannering insisted softly.

  “Surely, if he’s done this you could prove it,” Lorna said.

  “We can try,” said Wetherby. “It’s not easy. Say Brutus saw two or three men when he landed in Sydney a day or so ago-they could get this moving overnight. Drop a word here, make a telephone call there-’Send that bloody pommie Mannering a go-home letter, cobber,’ and the grapevine would spread it fast.”

  “So he might out of spite want to make me go back?”

  “Why don’t you use a stronger word? Say revenge.” Wetherby shifted his position. “You want some advice from me, Mr. Mannering?”

  “I can guess what advice you’d give.”

  “I can’t stop you guessing.”

  “Mannering, go home,” Mannering said.

  “That’s right.”

  Mannering gave a short, sharp laugh.

  “I certainly will, when I’ve finished what I came to do.”

  The shrewd eyes seemed to narrow and go dark.

  “What did you come to do?”

  “Find out if Australia and Australians can tell a real antique from a fake,” Mannering said lightly.

  “My God,” Wetherby growled. “You bloody pommies, you think you own all the culture there is. You come over here and look down your patrician noses and you talk as if we were a lot of bloody savages. You make me sick.” He turned to Lorna. “If he won’t see sense, you work on him. If he goes on like this someone will want to cut his bloody throat or hang him up by his braces.” He swung round, towards the door.

  Mannering moved swiftly for the first time since he had been attacked, so fast that Lorna darted back, and Wetherby missed a step. Mannering reached the door first, barring Wetherby’s path.

  “Out of my way,” Wetherby growled, “or I’ll have you put inside to cool your heels.”

  “If anyone’s going to cool his heels in jail you are,” Mannering said. “The C.I.B. doesn’t like men masquerading as detectives any more than the C.I.D. does.” As he spoke, he saw the glint in Wetherby’s eyes, saw the man throw himself bodily forward. Mannering snatched at his outflung arm, gripped and hoisted. One moment Wetherby looked massive and menacing enough to crush a giant; the next he went hurdling back into the room and thudded against the wall. Almost before he reached the floor, Mannering was running through his pockets, tapping his waist, beneath his arms, along his legs.

  “At least he’s not armed,” he observed.

  10: LOVE OR HATE?

  As Mannering straightened up from the fallen man, Lorna seemed to look at him as if at a stranger, yet he did not have the feeling that he had so often experienced lately; that she was criticizing him. Now that the crisis was over, his knees felt weak and his eyes began to water anew, the pain at his throat spreading to his chest. Lorna moved to him quickly, and put her arm round his waist.

  “Come and sit down,” she said.

  “Watch-him,” muttered Mannering, but the words were almost incoherent. He sank down in a large easy chair, looking at the man who had called himself a detective from the Criminal Investigation Bureau. The man’s eyes were closed; he might be unconscious, but he might only be dazed, in which case there was a chance he might be dangerous.

  Lorna put the glass to Mannering’s lips. He drank a little, and then spoke slowly. His raw, sore throat made his voice rasp, but at least the words were intelligible.

  “I’ve been wondering about him since the other man escaped so easily. And he was too fond of wild talk-no policeman would talk as freely as he did, unless he were drunk.” Mannering hesitated. “I wonder whether he’s too fond of Brutus-or whether he hates him.”

  “Hates?” echoed Lorna.

  “If someone wanted to convince me that Brutus was behind the ‘go home’ campaign, this chap couldn’t have chosen a better way.”

  “I still don’t understand how you knew he wasn’t a policeman.”

  Mannering said drily: “I’ve known a lot of policemen, and he just didn’t fit in. And he didn’t show any card of authority, or try to identify himself-a policeman always does, it gives more power to his elbow. I ought to see what’s in his pockets,” Mannering added.

  “You stay here,” Lorna said. “I’ll have a look.” She straightened up, and there was more fondness in her expression than there had been for a long time. “It’s ages since I’ve seen you in action, John.”

  “I’m too slow, these days,” Mannering said ruefully.

  She half-laughed. “Slow!” She turned her back on him and went to the man on the floor, bending down, obviously intending to go through his pockets. Mannering saw the man’s eyes flutter, and he cried: “Lookout!”

  As he sprang up from his chair, the man thrust both hands upwards, palms spreading over Lorna’s chest, pushing her backwards. Pain and the unexpectedness of the move made her stagger into Mannering, sending him sprawling against the chair. The fake policeman leapt to his feet and jumped towards the door, hand stretched out to open it, head turned to see what threat there was.

  Lorna had collapsed into Mannering’s lap.

  The big man wrenched the door open and went rushing out, slamming it behind him. His footsteps thudded along the passage, but Mannering, gasping for air, could hear them only vaguely. Every breath he drew sent pain stabbing through his chest, his lungs, his whole body. Lorna pulled herself to her feet and ran to the door, but she must have realized that she was too late. She glanced up and down the passage, and came back, looking utterly dejected.

  “John, I’m terribly sorry.”

  “Probably just as well that happened,” Mannering said. “I’m not fit to knock any sense into him, and he would have led us a hell of a dan
ce. At least there was no threat of real violence. I wonder. . .” He broke off.

  “What do you wonder?”

  “Forget it.”

  “John,” Lorna said, “if we can’t be frank with each other in a situation like this, we really are heading for trouble.”

  The way she spoke and the way she looked at him brought Mannering to the present with a jolt. She was facing the truth of the estrangement between them, and she was absolutely right.

  Mannering forced a smile.

  “We are indeed. I was wondering whether that merchant came to defend Brutus, or to damn him.”

  “You’ve a lot of experience in deducing motives.”

  “Yes. I wouldn’t like to say what I think about him, though.”

  “You’d like to think he came to damn Brutus, wouldn’t you?”

  Carefully, Mannering made himself ask: “What makes you think that?”

  “Well, you are so prejudiced.”

  “Am I?” Mannering considered. “I don’t think I am. I think I’m quite objective. If I have a preference. . .” he hesitated, then laughed, and said: “Of course I have a preference.”

  “Ah,” said Lorna, as if she was glad that he had been honest with himself.

  “I would prefer Brutus to be absolutely innocent of all this conniving,” Mannering said, and realized how much that took Lorna by surprise. “If he’s done this, if he had some ulterior motive in coming to Quinn’s you’d hate it, wouldn’t you?” When Lorna didn’t answer, Mannering went on: “Then so would I.”

  She stood looking down at him, and he believed that this was a moment of new understanding, a melting of the tensions which had built up between them. Lorna actually began to move her hands towards him, and the expression in her eyes had the warmth he knew so well.

  The telephone bell blared out.

  Lorna said: “Oh damn!”

  Mannering almost said: “Let it ring.”

  Lorna turned towards it quickly, almost angrily, and snatched it up.

  “This is Mrs. Mannering.”

  There was a moment’s pause, then, suddenly, her body grew tense, her fingers tightened on the receiver, and she darted a glance at Mannering, who felt alarm stab through him.