Help From The Baron

by John Creasey

  Mannering pulled on thin rubber gloves, turned up the collar of his coat and tugged down the brim of his hat, walked briskly along, and turned into the building. He went just to the top of the first flight of stairs. A door was close by, and the room beyond that in darkness. He proved that practice was speeding up his time on forcing locks; but this was an old-fashioned lock and no challenge. He slipped inside, leaving the door ajar, and watched the staircase.

  He saw and heard nothing.

  Did Bristow think that it was a waste of time looking after Lisle’s office? Did he think it was the last place that Lisle would go to? Or where enemies of Lisle would visit? Or was it just that the forces of the law were stretched so thin that Bristow couldn’t spare a man.

  Mannering came out of the office which had given him shelter, went downstairs and studied the list of names. Bernard Lisle, Commission Agent, was on the third floor. Refusing to be hurried, Mannering made quite sure that he wasn’t followed before going up.

  Lisle’s office was at the end of a long, narrow passage, and bare boards made it impossible to move silently; but no offices on this floor appeared to be occupied by night.

  Lisle’s office was in darkness.

  Mannering flicked out his key, slid it into the lock, manipulated with careless dexterity - and had no results at all.

  This door really had a lock that did its job.

  He began to smile, almost pleased by this. A job could be too easy, making one careless. He shone his torch, and without the diffused focus it shone very brightly on a small key-hole set in a modern brass lock. This would defeat all first- and second-class students of illegal locksmithing. He studied it for several seconds, then took a flat knife with many blades from his hip pocket.

  At moments like these the ghost of the Baron became a benevolent ghost. As one man might be an ordinary and commonplace person nine times out of ten and turn into a genius or a magnificent fly-half or a pilot of breathtaking courage on the tenth time, so Mannering was subject to a kind of metamorphosis. It was John Mannering who opened a door with a key or a skeleton key; it was the Baron who needed a craftsman’s tools.

  A thief, working by night and in silent darkness, needed a sense of alertness which was far greater than that of an ordinary man. He had to listen for faint and distant sounds; to judge one from another; to acquire a sixth sense telling of danger - as an expert motorist might when on the road. It was above all things a highly specialised craft, and once Mannering had been extremely proud of his skill in it.

  Now he simply found it useful.

  The door was ready to open in five minutes. He did not open it at first, but paused to listen. His breath was coming swiftly, and his heart pounded.

  All seemed well.

  He opened the door an inch, left it like that, and listened. Allow Bristow a mede of cunning. Bristow might have decided that the safest thing to do was watch Lisle’s office from the inside, so that anyone who did break in would walk right into a policeman’s parlour.

  On this deathly silence, even bated breathing made an audible sound.

  He opened the door wider, slipped inside, and shone his torch. He did not expect to see anyone, it was a precaution which came almost mechanically. He expected a small office, and it was so small that the desk was within six feet of the door.

  Sitting at the desk was a man.

  Well, he had been a man.

  16: A WELCOME HOME FOR MANNERING

  Mannering held on to the torch. The thin, bright beam quivered for a moment, then became steady again. It shone on the pulpy mess that had been a face.

  It wasn’t that anyone had gone for the face, as far as he could see in that first horrific moment; the whole head had been crushed.

  Mannering put out the torch.

  He stood there for some seconds, then made himself stand upright. That was the first time he realised that he had been leaning against the door, but now he recollected hearing it click to. He groped for the light switch. He looked towards a corner when he switched the light on.

  Then he looked at the dead man. The unwonted pull of nausea tugged at his stomach again.

  He couldn’t afford to be squeamish.

  He had come for some evidence that would help him to find out what Bernard Lisle did for a living, and to find out where the man was. He had been prepared to spend half an hour here. Nothing had really changed, he still had the opportunity to search.

  Could he force himself to stay?

  He took a step forward.

  He heard a sound which came from some way off, and yet found its way through the big office building’s draughty passages and bare walls. It was the squeal of brakes; so someone nearby was in a hurry. The police were often in a hurry. He was perpetually alert for the police when the mantle of the Baron lay upon him.

  He heard an unmistakable footstep - of men hurrying.

  He opened the door and stepped into the passage; there, the sound was louder. So was the thudding of his heart. He closed the door with a snap, but the thumping of footsteps on the staircase probably muffled it. He went along the passage, swift as a man fleeing from disaster, past the head of the stairs and towards another office. A bright light came on down below. Strange, shadowy shapes were thrown on the wall as men came racing up, but they had not yet reached the landing below.

  Mannering used his skeleton-key like a magician’s wand, and felt almost choked, in case this lock was a good one, too. It was no more than a modest test for pupils of Lesson One. He opened the door and slipped inside, closed the door, and saw light and then more shadows against the frosted-glass panel.

  Someone said: “Careful!”

  Another man said: “That’s not going to be easy.”

  They were looking at the lock of the office door. Other men came up, in less of a hurry. Mannering dared to open his door a fraction. The first big, grey back he saw was unmistakably Bristow’s.

  “All right, get it down,” Bristow said. “Make sure there are no prints on the outside. If this is a fool’s errand . . ..”

  Another man, Sergeant Ross, spoke quickly.

  “Can’t see why anyone should tip us off that Lisle was dead in his office, if he wasn’t. It’s the kind of thing Mannering might do, if he were looking around. Sure it wasn’t Mannering?”

  “Yes,” grunted Bristow.

  Mannering waited for fully five minutes; then the detectives started thrusting at the door with their shoulders. He had recovered from the fright enough to imagine the effect if he should go forward and offer his services. The adult mind could have its silly fancies.

  The thudding shook this office badly, and when the door opened, it crashed back.

  Mannering was sure what would follow; the light would go on, and be followed by a moment of horrified silence.

  He waited.

  He heard the click of the switch, then opened his door wide, left it open, and stepped into the passage. Four solid backs were turned towards him, four Scotland Yard men Stared upon horror.

  Mannering turned away from them, away from the staircase towards another passage, went along it, found what he had prayed for: a secondary staircase. He went stealthily down to the ground floor. He could have gone out the front way, but Bristow would have left at least one man down there.

  Mannering saw a door marked: Cloakroom. It opened to a cubicle with two hand-basins and a W.C. Above the hand-basins was the window he had hoped to find. He pushed it open, climbed out into a narrow alley, walked along it and found himself on a waste-land of bombed sites, like those at Hart Row.

  He made his way across this, until he came to a paved road, and soon he was in Holborn.

  Buses were still on the street, but only here and there did he see anyone walking. The pubs were closed, and he needed a drink. Now that the forced excitement of escaping from the police had gone, the effect of the sight of the dead man came back; it was likely to haunt him for a long time to come.

  So was another thought.

 
If there was reason to think the body was Lisle’s, and the police had been told it was, then someone would have to identify that body.

  He turned and walked towards Oxford Street, thinking of Francesca. That and the battered man was all he could think about. What savagery had done this thing, what purpose was there?

  The obvious one: a faked death? A body supposed to be Lisle’s, but that of another man?

  He was guessing wildly.

  He was desperately fearful, for Francesca.

  A taxi slowed down. Mannering noticed it, without really knowing what it meant. A cabby called: “Cab, sir?”

  Mannering stopped as if struck, clenched his teeth and swung round.

  “What?”

  “Okay, sir, I didn’t mean . . .”

  “Oh, taxi. Yes. Yes, thanks.” Mannering had the wit to keep his head down, and got in quickly, calling: “Victoria Station, please.” He could get another cab from there. He sat back, lit a cigarette, and tried to throw the memory off; but it wouldn’t go.

  Victoria was busy with the after-theatre rush hour for suburban trains and nearer-suburban buses. Taxis weren’t easy to get. Mannering took a Number 11 bus, which passed the end of Green Street. He was so intent that he went two stops beyond the one he wanted, and had to walk back.

  It was not until he was on his own landing that he thought about Lorna, who was almost certainly home now, and - angry?

  He hesitated.

  He wouldn’t be able to reason with her, to jolly her, to woo her into a forgiving mood. Vaguely he knew that she would be justified in being sore, even hurt; but he didn’t want one of those occasional estrangements. He wasn’t himself. In a moment of self-justification he recalled all that had happened. A long, empty afternoon peopled with unlikely fears. Then in swift succession, Chittering, the sharp lesson to Chas Ringall, Susan Pengelly, the encounter with Scoby, the lesson in reverse. A gap. Prinny. Bristow hostile. The girl artist’s flat and then - Lisle?

  He felt as if his nerves would start screaming.

  He took out his key.

  The door opened before he touched the keyhole, and Lorna stood there, still in the lovely gown, white shoulders and arms glowing like marble, eyes clear, direct, accusing . . .?

  He said: “Hallo,” and moved towards her, looking into her eyes because he did not feel that he could avoid them. He wasn’t going to argue, but he needn’t crumple up from the beginning.

  He saw the expression change in her eyes.

  “John,” she said, with a catch in her breath. “Darling!”

  Suddenly, he was in the room and the door was closed behind them, and his arms were round her - holding her as if, in fact, she were holding him. Clinging to her. At first, the only thought was of his folly; of course she would not let him down, he need not have built up that strange picture of a vengeful wife. She was everything he could ever want.

  Then came the other pictures.

  Lorna didn’t exactly help him into the bedroom, but soon he was there, collar and bow-tie loosened, sitting back in an armchair.

  “Take your shoes off,” Lorna said. “I’ll get you a drink.” He’d even been wrong about that: she didn’t say “tea”. He kicked off his patent-leather shoes, and they reminded him of Ephraim Scoby’s. Yes, he could understand what had happened to him; in seven hours . . .

  Five. A clock was striking twelve.

  Lorna came in, with whisky, and if there were soda too, he hardly noticed it. He took it in two gulps, then leaned back, breathing through his open mouth. He was feeling light-hearted already; not burdened with so great a weight. Lorna lit a cigarette and put it to his lips.

  “How’d the party go? I was - damned sorry . . .”

  “Toby’s father was wonderful,” she said. “We couldn’t stop laughing.”

  They couldn’t stop laughing.

  Suddenly, Mannering began to talk, and he couldn’t stop talking. Everything poured out. What had happened, what he had done, what he had thought, what he had seen.

  Lorna saw, then, how the hours had been so crowded that the marvel was that he was here now; and that he could talk so coherently.

  The spate dried up, at last.

  By then, and by dint of artless persuasion and suggestion, he was in bed; mumbling. He took two pills; grumbling. He took a glass of some malty milk drink which he swore was abominable at the first sip, and ended up by enjoying. He slid down into bed. With some surprise, he realised that he was in bed, pyjama-clad, teeth cleaned, and Lorna was still in the black evening-gown. Wonderful figure, and his. Wonderful woman, and his. He ought to have looked forward to coming home.

  He was asleep before she was in bed.

  By eight o’clock the telephone was ringing. Larraby; to report that Scoby had paid his bill at the hotel and vanished; Larraby’s distress was due solely to failing to follow the man.

  Chittering; to talk.

  Simon Lessing; to demand.

  Lorna took all the messages, and refused to wake Mannering; but he was up soon after nine.

  Bristow didn’t sleep well that night. He did not get home until after half-past one, and his wife, who sometimes hardly realised that his life was amongst crime and criminals, for to her he was normal as the next man, knew that he was really worried. Unlike Mannering, he did not talk; when worried he kept the basic facts to himself. He did drop off, about five o’clock, and the telephone was ringing for him at seven. His wife could not keep the importunate Yard officials from him any later than eight o’clock.

  By half-past nine, smudgy-eyed, smoking cigarettes one after the other, he was in his office. There were photographs of Bernard Lisle, mostly obtained from Lisle’s flat; and photographs of the dead man. These didn’t help at all. There was a list of the contents of the dead man’s pockets, and three of them - a knife with a monogram, BL, three visiting-cards with his name and address and a driving-licence in his name, might be taken as evidence of identification. The body measurements were about right; the build was about right; the colouring, too, and the colour of the hair - the little that wasn’t blood-stained.

  Bristow would have taken the identity almost for granted, but for the damage to the head and face. That kind of sadistic damage was seldom done for its own sake. If the killer had wanted to make sure that he couldn’t be finally identified, or that the wrong body should be identified, that was the kind of bashing head and face were likely to receive.

  There were body marks.

  Slight mole on right hip. Butterfly wing mole on right shoulder, beneath the shoulder-blade - an unusual marking. Appendectomy scar. Slight operation scars behind right knee identified by a police-surgeon as the “tying” Operation sometimes used for varicose veins; there was a varicose tendency in both legs. Small brown mole on knuckle of left little finger. Small, red scar, possibly a burn, on left wrist, just above the wrist-bone.

  The two last might possibly be remembered by acquaintances, but there was no certainty; and in themselves they would not constitute identification. Bristow faced the simple fact: as far as he knew, only Francesca Lisle could identify her father.

  He wouldn’t wish any girl, good or bad, to have to do that.

  He studied other reports. Mannering’s movements, as far as they could be traced, gave him time to have been to Lisle’s office. There was no proof. Joy Lessing was still missing. Simon Lessing had been in his flat all night, Susan Pengelly had left him fairly early, and gone straight to her flat. The reports were sketchy, he hadn’t enough time to tackle them all thoroughly.

  He simply hadn’t another witness to identify Francesca Lisle’s father; if the corpse were Lisle’s. The report from the nursing home was good; she was almost herself again, except for some lingering shock symptoms. She had made it plain that she intended to go home. She must be watched, the danger to her was obviously great.

  Bristow finished studying the report, and had a word on the telephone with his Assistant Commissioner. He was told to do what he thought best, which didn’t he
lp at all, and went straight to the nursing home. This was in a side street off Great Smith Street, near the Abbey.

  Outside the nursing home, squeezed between an Austin Seven of ancient vintage and an American car with sleek, shiny lines, was Mannering’s Rolls-Bentley. The sight of it annoyed Bristow. He felt sore because he felt sure that Mannering was playing a double game, the trouble with a man who had once been a thief was that he didn’t see things in the way of other men, but had a perverted vision. Bristow wasn’t sure, but still thought it likely that Mannering was holding the Fioras - possibly for their new owner, possibly as a bait to catch the original thieves and the murderers.

  What was he saying to Francesca?

  17: AN ORDEAL FOR FRANCESCA LISLE

  At that very moment Mannering wasn’t saying anything to Francesca. He was sitting and looking at her.

  She was up and dressed in a navy-blue dress with many pleats in the skirt. She looked nice, except for her expression, which was - frightened? He thought that fear was there. He didn’t know whether it was a hangover from what had happened on the Festival Hall Terrace, or whether there was some other reason for it.

  He hadn’t told her about the body in the office; at least that wasn’t his job.

  He felt rested; competent to help.

  She said: “Yes, of course I shall go home, Mr. Mannering. It’s very good of you to offer to have me at your flat, but I’m sure I shall be all right. If I do feel nervous at night, I - I’ll come round to you. But why should I feel nervous?” Suddenly she was defiant, and that was the thing which puzzled Mannering more than anything else. “My father is bound to be home very soon.”

  “It’s just possible that he won’t,” said Mannering quietly.

  “I don’t believe that anything has happened to him!” There was the defiance again; and perhaps she really meant: “I won’t believe.” She was pale except for spots of colour; she had been when he had come in.