Sport For The Baron

by John Creasey

  A moment later, she said: “Who are you?”

  Mannering thought he heard a man laugh; he was sure that he heard the click of the receiver. Slowly, Lorna turned to him. It was hardly necessary for her to explain.

  “I’m to tell my husband to go back to England, or. . .”

  “Or what?” asked Mannering with forced quietness.

  “Or the next time it will be corrosive acid, not tear-gas,” Lorna said.

  In fact, no threats had been received at police headquarters; but several had been sent to the newspapers, and next morning two of them carried darker headlines.

  One said: THREATS TO FINE ART DEALER.

  Said another: GO HOME OR ELSE ...

  Mannering had slept soundly, Lorna had also had a good night. A pretty little Italian girl who brought their morning tea obviously, and to their relief, knew nothing about them. Mannering’s eyes were clear; apart from a slight hoarseness he felt none the worse for the tear-gas attack. They went down to breakfast, but unlike the Italian girl, most of the people in the dining-room paid them special and unnecessary attention, their waiter said, “Yes, Mr. Mannering,” with every other sentence, and a burly man in a corner, devouring a large steak, three eggs and a pile of bacon, hardly took his eyes off them.

  As they were going out of the dining-room a waiter approached them.

  “Telephone for you, Mr. Mannering.”

  “Oh, thank you.”

  “I’ll go out and get a breath of air,” Lorna decided.

  Mannering went into a booth; a girl said: “It’s Superintendent Cartwright for you, sir,” and at once a man spoke in a deep yet rather detached voice.

  “Mr. John Mannering?”

  “Yes,” said Mannering.

  “I’m Superintendent Cartwright, C.I.B.,” the man said. “Will you come to see me, or shall I come to see you?”

  Mannering said: “What time shall I come?”

  “Name your own time,” said Cartwright.

  It was then nine forty-five.

  “Eleven o’clock,” suggested Mannering.

  “Just tell your taxi-man you want the new police headquarters,” Cartwright said.

  The new headquarters proved to be an old factory, refurbished and made suitable for the police force which served a city larger than any in Great Britain except London. Mannering had dropped Lorna off at a corner of Liverpool Street, and then watched the traffic and the people, noticing the similarities and yet the inescapable differences between this and England’s capital. There seemed a greater contrast between the very new and the fairly old, but although he absorbed these things he was also alert to the possibility that he might be followed.

  He did not think he was.

  There was a noticeable casualness about the plain-clothes man he met, camaraderie more immediately apparent than at the Yard. A Detective Sergeant with an enormous paunch pushed open the door of a room marked: ‘Superintendent Cartwright, without tapping. Two men were inside the room, one young, spruce, alert, the other sitting behind the desk, much older, grey-haired, benevolent-looking and very relaxed.

  The older man nodded to Mannering and continued to speak to the younger one.

  “Right then, Pete, you go and smoke the basket out, and if you need more men, call Ted and tell him to get a move on. Tell him I said we want it done, quick.”

  The younger man turned away, his dark eyes summing Mannering up in swift appraisal as he went out. The Sergeant said: “Mr. Mannering, Skipper.”

  “Dead on time, too.” Cartwright sat back in his chair and studied Mannering. Satisfied, he stood up and held out his hand. “Glad to meet you, Mr. Mannering, and thanks for coming. Take a pew.”

  Mannering sat down.

  “Had any more threats?” asked Cartwright. He had a tough skin with a deep tan, and a curiously gentle expression.

  “How many do you know about?” asked Mannering.

  Cartwright smiled broadly.

  “The one by telephone last night, and the one in person yesterday afternoon.”

  “Do you know all about the one that got away?” said Mannering drily.

  “No. Tell me about it.” After Mannering did so, the Superintendent went on in a growl: “Why didn’t you tell us about that right away. Aren’t you scared enough?”

  “Not yet,” Mannering said. “Do you think I ought to be?”

  “I don’t know enough about it,” answered Cartwright. “All I know is that someone is trying to frighten you enough to drive you out of the country, and anyone who utters threats and menaces is breaking the law, which means I want it stopped. What don’t they want you to buy?”

  Mannering said: “I haven’t come to buy anything.”

  “You’ve come for the Melbury House Sale, haven’t you?”

  “Yes,” Mannering said, and after a pause he added: “Ostensibly.”

  “What’s the real reason? Brutus?”

  “I’d like to find out if he’s what he pretended to be.”

  “Don’t waste your time. Nathaniel Brutus doesn’t pretend anything. He never has.” Cartwright opened a folder on his desk, took out a duplicated document and handed it across the desk. “There’s his dossier, you can keep that copy.”

  “So he’s got a record.”

  “No,” said Cartwright. “But he’s twice had trouble with con-men, and as a result we’ve built up a picture of him. One man robbed him of half-a-million pounds, selling fakes supposed to be by Picasso, Matisse, and so on. Doesn’t sound much if you say it quickly, does it? The con-man was English, and he borrowed a knighthood to make an impression. The second con-man sold Brutus fifty thousand pounds-worth of old masters which someone in a Chelsea, London, England, cellar had painted. He was English, too. So he’s on the record as being suspicious of the English.”

  Cartwright was half-smiling, wholly serious, and very watchful.

  “I don’t blame him,” Mannering said. “I’m beginning to understand a lot of things. What’s he really like?”

  “Honest. Naive. Too trusting, especially where the arts are concerned. Very Australian. And he’s got the Midas touch and millions of sheep.” Cartwright shifted his position. “And you aren’t interested in the Melbury Collection.”

  “I wouldn’t have come specially for it,” Mannering said, “but I’ll go and have a look now that I am here.”

  “Have you come to see anything else? I mean have you given anyone advance notice that you’re interested in any particular thing?”

  “No,” said Mannering.

  “Mannering,” Cartwright said, “I don’t like calling any man a liar.”

  Mannering sat very still.

  “I know what you’ve come for,” the Australian said.

  Mannering didn’t speak.

  “We hear plenty,” went on Cartwright, “even about what happens in London. You’ve come to look for the Melbury Picasso.” When Mannering still made no comment but sat staring at him blankly, the C.I.B. man went on with some loss of assurance. “If you succeed, it won’t be any mud in our eyes. Good luck to you.” Into the cold silence which followed, Cartwright went on heavily: “Goddammit, Mannering-we know you saw Venella Melbury in London. The moment we heard you were coming we knew why- and we anticipated trouble.”

  Mannering made himself speak calmly.

  “There was the man who pretended to be a C.I.B. officer. You know what I did to him.” He paused for a pregnant second. “I’d like to do the same to you at this moment.”

  “Now Mannering. . .”

  “But I won’t,” Mannering said. “Get a few things clear, will you? I do not know Venella Melbury, I have never heard of the Melbury Picasso. I’ve told you everything I can. I am not, and have never been, interested in any particular picture or objet d’art on this trip.”

  Cartwright pursed his lips, before saying gruffly: “I take back all I said. We know from servant’s gossip that the Picasso picture, Black Day, was stolen six months ago. Venella Melbury said it had been shippe
d out for exhibitions in the United States, but that was to cover up the loss.” After another pause, Cartwright went on: “Forget it, will you?”

  “I can’t forget it soon enough.”

  “Goodo!” Cartwright shifted in his chair. “Well I’m sorry, all the same. I hoped that we would find out what this is all about.” He spread his hands. “The Melbury Collection is a very old one by Australian standards and over the years there have been a lot of rumours that half of the major pieces are fakes-or stolen from owners who had no right to them, anyway, and couldn’t make a fuss. This could have been a way of making sure you couldn’t find out if this is true.”

  “Other dealers could,” Mannering said.

  “Unless there happens to be some particular article only you would know about,” Cartwright said. He touched another folder. “This is your dossier. The Yard told us a lot about you, and your fame had reached here without that. You’re the dealer most likely to know about stolen objets d’art, or jewels, or. . .” he slapped the folder. “It could still be an attempt to keep you away from Melbury House.”

  “Not Nathaniel Brutus, getting his own back?” Mannering asked.

  “Could be that, too. When are you going to Melbury House?”

  “I haven’t decided yet.”

  “Let me know when you go,” said Cartwright. “I don’t want the case of the murdered art dealer on my hands.” He paused long enough to allow that to sink in, and then went on. “And tell me if there’s anything I can do for you while you’re here, won’t you?”

  “Yes,” said Mannering. “Thanks. And here’s one thing for a start. Why did you think I’d come to look for the missing Picasso?”

  “It would add up-after Venella saw you in London.”

  “I’ve never heard of Venella Melbury.”

  “My information is that you met her,” Cartwright said. “I don’t know-”

  A man came in, unannounced, nodded to Mannering, and said to Cartwright: “They got Willy Smythe.”

  “About time,” said Cartwright, gruffly. “I’ll be with you in five minutes.” He looked at Mannering with an apologetic manner. “Smythe’s an escaped convict with a bad record of violence. I have to see him soon. Anything more I can do for you?”

  “Yes. Where does Brutus live, and how do I get there?”

  “Baratta, northern New South Wales, close to the Queensland border,” answered Cartwright. “The only good and quick way is to fly. You could drive, but a lot of the roads are little more than bull dust, they’ve had no rain up there for nearly a year. A charter plane’s best. Or train to Brisbane, then by charter plane. Any of the airline offices will lay it on for you.” Cartwright stood up, proving to have a surprisingly flat stomach and narrow hips in spite of his huge chest. “Do one thing for me, will you?”

  “For you-or for the police?”

  “The police.”

  “If I can do anything, I will.”

  “Have a good look round when you go to Melbury House, and if you see any sign of faked or stolen stuff, let me or the Melbourne police know. If it’s Melbourne, ask for Castle -Superintendent Castle.”

  “What makes you think there’s stolen stuff at the house?”

  “Rumour,” said Cartwright. “Gossip. Scandal. Old Melbury, who owned the place, stole everything-from other men’s wives to their reputations. So he wouldn’t have objected on principle to ill-gotten loot. Don’t quote me, though.” Cartwright grinned broadly, and shook hands. Then he said solemnly: “And be bloody careful.”

  Lorna looked carefree, her hair a little windblown, eyes bright, as if the city on a gloriously sunny day with a gusty wind had driven half of her cares away. She was in the foyer of the hotel, in Castlereagh Street, and jumped up as Mannering entered.

  “Do you feel like a walk, John?”

  “Good idea,” Mannering said. “Where?”

  “I’ve discovered the old part of the city, near the bridge,” Lorna told him. “Almost underneath it, as a matter of fact. It isn’t far-about twenty minutes’ walk. Have you seen Martin Place yet?”

  “No.”

  “We’ll go that way,” Lorna said. “It’s really impressive.”

  Soon, she led him to the corner of Martin Place, and they paused for a moment, gazing at the massive buildings, solid enough to weather many centuries. Slowly they traced their way along the narrow streets, flanked by buildings which would have looked old in any city, until they reached a lane leading to the harbour. Here they could see the sun glinting on the broad stretch of water, waves whipped to white horses by gusty winds. A big liner was sailing with aloof majesty under the vast span of the bridge.

  As they went, Mannering told Lorna what Cartwright had said to him-including the story of the missing Picasso.

  Walking with her he was alert for the slightest sign of trouble, watching the cars which came towards him, the people who seemed to dawdle in their wake. But nothing untoward happened; there was no threat nor menace nor hint of danger. They chose a different way back and found themselves on a tiny triangle of green opposite a building which was being demolished. Near this stood a taxi.

  “We’ve walked long enough,” Mannering said, and hailed it. Five minutes later they were opening the door of their room. All thought of danger had gone out of Mannering’s head, for the walk and the short drive seemed to have drawn him and Lorna closer together.

  He pushed the door open.

  On the instant there was a concerted rush, by half a dozen youngish men, some of them with cudgels.

  11: QUICK WORK

  Mannering saw the youths over Lorna’s shoulder and realized she would bear the brunt of the attack. He flung her to one side, hunching his shoulders, protecting his head with his arms. A blow struck him on the wrist, sharp and painful, another fell dully on the top of his head, and someone kicked his knee. He had the awful feeling of helpless fury as he grabbed a man’s arm and twisted without getting a proper hold. As the man jerked himself free, Mannering thought of Lorna, praying that she had got away.

  Then, stillness came.

  He heard a shout, as of alarm, followed by heavy thudding and a cracking sound. Feet and legs moved like pistons in front of him, then passed by. Someone said in a satisfied voice: “No you don’t!”

  Mannering turned round, and saw the incredible; four youths, handcuffed together, one bleeding at the nose, another with a swollen eye. Four much bigger men were also there, including the young, spruce and dark-eyed one who had been in Cartwright’s office. This man raised a hand to Mannering. Lorna was in the passage, bending over a fifth youth, who lay apparently unconscious.

  She looked up, obviously unhurt, and saw Mannering, flashing him a quick glance of reassurance.

  The C.I.B. man said: “Sorry we were a bit late, Mr. Mannering. We knew the slobs were here but we wanted to catch ‘em red-handed. They’ll get twice as heavy a sentence for assault as they would for breaking-in.” After a fractional pause, he went on: “You all right?”

  “Next time you want an Aunt Sally, leave my wife out of it, will you?” Mannering said, but the rebuke did nothing to discomfort the Detective.

  “You could always send her home,” he said, but it was not meant offensively, and he grinned.

  Painted on the walls, smeared over the furniture, white-washed on the windows, scrawled on placards stuck in every corner and on every available surface, were the words:

  POMMIE, GO HOME

  “The truth is, you would be better off back in England,” Mannering said to Lorna.

  “The truth is, you would hate it if I went,” retorted Lorna. “And I would hate it if you stayed here alone. As the police seem to be taking very good care of us, I’ve a much better idea.”

  “When this is all over I’ll have a word with Cartwright,” Mannering said. “They could have disfigured you for life.” Already a bruise on her cheek was very red, it would be dark and painful in the morning. Gruffly, he went on: “What’s this better idea?”

  It
was an hour after the police and their five prisoners had gone. The Mannerings were in another suite, their belongings moved in, everything back to normal. Lorna was sitting in a small easy chair, her legs up on a pouffe, a cup of coffee in her hand. Mannering was standing by a window overlooking Castlereagh Street.

  “John,” Lorna said, “don’t misunderstand me, will you?”

  “I’ll try not to.”

  “I think I ought to go and see Brutus on my own.”

  Mannering was so startled that he didn’t respond.

  “Darling, listen,” Lorna went on. “He’s so full of prejudice against you that he wouldn’t be reasonable, he’d just want to throw you out. Whereas I might be able to talk sense into him.”

  Mannering just saved himself from saying that it was a marked concession to admit that Brutus wasn’t being sensible. He made no comment.

  “Do you think he would listen to you?” Lorna demanded.

  “I doubt it, especially if he’s behind this campaign.”

  “Even if he is, I might be able to reason with him,” Lorna argued. She seemed to brace herself. “But that’s absurd. I’m quite sure he knows nothing about it.” She put her cup and saucer down and leaned forward, her brows knitted together, her hands tightly clenched. “John, what else can we do?”

  “If Brutus is behind these attacks you could be running into danger.”

  “Oh, nonsense! Everyone would know where I was going, he wouldn’t take it out on me and make sure of drawing attention to himself. He’s not a fool.”

  “Would you still want to go if you knew for certain he was behind the attacks?”

  Slowly, thoughtfully, Lorna said: “More than ever, I think.” Then, after a short pause, she repeated decisively: “Yes, more than ever. John, you put the spark to a flame of positive hatred of England and the English. If you go up there you’re bound to make the situation worse. I might make it a lot better.”

  “A little patriotic flag-waving,” Mannering said, and the accompanying smile could not rob the words of tartness.