Love for the Baron

by John Creasey

  “After, I think,” answered Mannering. “And I think you should take a few days’ holiday out of London, the weather’s wonderful for the end of November.”

  “I may go down to Sussex and see my sister,” Larraby said, “but I would very much like to hear the solicitors’ reaction to this news soon.”

  “And so you shall,” Mannering promised.

  Larraby went out, and Mannering put all the relevant figures and reports into a steel drawer behind the desk, and locked it. Bristow was out, looking at some goods due to be auctioned at a private house in Ealing, but three of the young assistants at Quinn’s were in the shop. All of these were comparatively new; Quinn’s was a training ground for young men who subsequently went on to other, larger dealers as managers, or else opened their own shops. Bristow had once remarked drily that to become a member on the staff at Quinn’s these days a young man had to be screened as thoroughly as for the Secret Service.

  Yet Larraby had once been in prison, because he had not been able to control his love, his passion for precious stones.

  Mannering went into the street and looked up and down – simply for a glimpse of the woman in dark glasses. He did not see her and there was no doubt at all about his pang of disappointment. Why was she so much on his mind this morning?

  When was he going to stop playing the fool and find out who she was and why she was haunting him?

  Haunting.

  It was almost like being shadowed by a ghost!

  He laughed at his own folly, partly for reassurance, and then turned and looked at the window of Quinn’s.

  There, solitary against black velvet, was the emerald tiara.

  Its beauty seemed to blind him and the scintillas of light flashing from the jewels seemed to fasten like fibres about his heart.

  The tiara had not been there when he had reached Quinn’s that morning; why had Bristow placed it in the window since? Bristow never did anything without a purpose, but what purpose could he possibly have had over this? Mannering moved away from the window, heart still thumping, astonished at his own reaction; it was as if the emeralds in that single headpiece had a hypnotic effect on him. He glanced at it out of the corner of his eye as he paused, set his teeth and strode to Bond Street. He turned into it blindly although dozens of people were about – and one of them was the girl with the dark glasses.

  She was coming – she appeared to have been coming – from the other direction, and was walking quickly. She dodged to one side, he to the same side; for a moment they stood still, facing each other. Then the girl moved swiftly to the kerb, stepped into the roadway and walked past.

  “Who—” Mannering began.

  People surged backwards and forwards. There was a policeman whom he knew slightly, a newspaperman who had interviewed him more than once. Mannering nodded, smiled, strode on. Now his heart was thumping for another reason: the girl.

  What the devil was the matter with him?

  Girl?

  He had never seen her so close before; or at least never had so much time in which to scrutinise her: all of twenty seconds, enough to know what she looked like – that she was not a ‘girl’ but a mature woman, lines at her mouth and the corners of her eyes proved that. Not a host of them, not deep, but no young woman in her early twenties would have them. Thirty? Perhaps, thirty-five.

  He crossed Bond Street near Savile Row, passed the police station and saw two detectives in plainclothes entering. Both recognised him, both spoke.

  “Mr. Mannering.”

  “Good morning, sir.”

  “Good morning.”

  Mannering’s smile was quick and bright; he hoped it was not as mechanical as he felt it to be. Two or three narrow streets along was a pub, the Golden Bough, where he came occasionally when on his own and did not want to talk shop or pleasantries with anyone. The food here was always fresh and good, and went well with a light ale. What he needed was not beer but a hard drink. Nonsense! He ordered the beer, served always in thick glass tankards, and helped himself to a Scotch egg, paid, and moved across to a corner where there was a high bench. He drank half the beer, and cut the egg; then looked over the partition.

  Standing at the other bar was the woman with dark glasses.

  She wore a suit of olive green tweed, or some loosely woven material with a gold thread. A light, just above her, seemed to put flecks of the same gold in the darker shade of her hair. She was looking straight at him, holding a small tankard in one hand, a sandwich in the other. He thought ‘looking straight at him’ but could not be sure because of the glasses; he knew only that her face was turned towards him.

  He must speak to her.

  He turned, but his path was blocked by a group of men who had come to share the counter; young, boisterous, taking up a lot of room. He passed behind them, encountering a man and a girl, and then a couple of stoutish women. The pub, which had seemed empty, was now crowded, a babel of talk and laughter. Mannering tried, unsuccessfully, to squeeze between a man balancing three tankards on an enormous palm and another who carried four short drinks. The door continually opened and closed, but he reached the end of the dividing partition at last, and sought everywhere for the girl – or woman.

  She wasn’t there.

  He felt frustrated, furious.

  But what did it matter? Why should he feel so angry or so involved? Why did the beer suddenly taste flat and the Scotch egg dry? He made himself finish them both, and then pushed his way out, using a side entrance to a lane which led to Berkeley Square. A taxi slowed down but he ignored it. A woman came towards him, about the same size and figure as the girl, with much the same poise and carriage but she wore no dark glasses. Could this possibly be her? Hope flared, his heart raced, only to slacken as they drew level. This was a much older woman who had once been beautiful in a severe way but was now showing her age. She glanced at Mannering and away. He walked round the square, briskly, baffled by his own reactions yet not attempting to pretend they were other than they were.

  What the devil was the matter with him?

  Why was she so often close to him and why did she always disappear before he really had a chance to speak to her?

  Suddenly, a realisation came upon him, so obvious that it was astounding that he had never actually formulated the words or the decision before. It was very simple. He must find out who she was. The time had come when he could not keep the secret to himself. Now that he considered, he marvelled that he had hugged it to himself for so long.

  He walked back to Bond Street and Hart Row and this time approached Quinn’s prepared to see the emerald tiara and determined that he would control his emotions about the piece, but as he drew nearer his heart began to race again although not for the same reason. He was on the other side of the road and should be able to see the emeralds by now but he could not. Instead of the green fire there was a single Chinese vase, eighteen inches or so high, gracefully shaped, and of a pale, azure blue colour which seemed like a surrounding mist, almost a ghostly ectoplasm. It was unique and as valuable as the tiara but it was not the jewelled headpiece. He crossed Hart Row and saw Bristow and two of the assistants standing together near the front of the shop, and he judged that Bristow was excited, and had touched the others with the same spirit. As Mannering opened the door they all turned towards him, and Bristow – punctilious when the younger staff were within earshot and used to saying ‘sir’ throughout his Scotland Yard career – called out: “You’ll never guess what’s happened, sir.”

  “I wish you’d put money on that,” Mannering said drily. “The tiara has been sold.”

  “Sold, paid for and taken away,” Bristow declared, elatedly, but Mannering sensed something forced in his manner and was not surprised when Bristow’s whole demeanour changed as they went along the shop and turned behind the cover of the Welsh dresser. Before Mannering spoke, and on the instant that the office door closed, Bristow said: “I doubt if you can guess who bought it.”

  A dozen names of collect
ors whose especial love was emeralds sprang to Mannering’s mind, but naming any one of these would simply be hit or miss; and Bristow’s tone and expression suggested that it was not someone whose name he could hope to guess. So he said: “No, Bill. I’ve no idea.”

  “The woman who has been following you about for the past few weeks,” Bristow answered, then seemed to steel himself to face Mannering’s reaction; it was almost as if he expected anger to flare up.

  And he was right.

  4

  Bristow’s Discretion

  Slowly mannering’s anger died.

  Dying, it made him realise the obvious: that any man so used to detective work as Bristow, must have known about the woman; he should not be even slightly surprised by that. Slowly, too, full realisation of what Bristow had said came to him. That particular woman had bought the emerald tiara in the space of an hour – less than an hour. She must have come here straight from the Golden Bough, had probably arrived here while he had been searching for her.

  “How long ago?” he asked.

  “Not more than half-an-hour.”

  “How did she pay?”

  “By draft on Major’s Bank.”

  Major was one of the few remaining private banks in England, and was widely used for international trading. Mannering’s heart missed a beat, for she must have given her name and her credentials. Should he show Bristow how eager he was to know? Bristow was regarding him very levelly but kept silent. A muffled ringing sound betrayed the opening of the shop door, and it was a relief to look through one of the holes in the carving and to see the middle-aged couple who had come in. One of the assistants, dressed in a grey suit of impeccable cut, went forward.. The man spoke in a deep voice with a pronounced American accent. Bostonian, Mannering thought, before the assistant could say more than ‘good morning’.

  “I am very interested in the vase. May I see it, please?”

  “Most certainly, sir.”

  “It hasn’t been there for more than twenty minutes,” Bristow said, half-amused. “If we sell two things out of the window in an hour—”

  “Come into my office, Bill,” Mannering said. “Charles will come if he wants us.” He unlocked the door and motioned to a chair in front of the desk and they sat down. He made himself smile but it was not easy. “How long have you known that I was being followed?”

  “A little over three weeks,” Bristow answered.

  “Have you any idea why?”

  “Not the foggiest,” Bristow assured him. “But—” He broke off.

  “Go on, Bill.”

  “It puzzled me,” Bristow said, “mostly because you were obviously aware of her and yet did nothing about it. So I assumed you knew who she was.”

  Very slowly, Mannering shook his head and echoed Bristow’s: “Not the foggiest.”

  Bristow actually opened his mouth in astonishment, gulped, and sat more upright in his chair. It seemed a long time before he said in a rather strained voice:

  “You seriously mean you’ve been shadowed for over three weeks by a woman you don’t know, and haven’t tried to find out who she is?”

  “Four weeks and two days,” Mannering replied flatly. “Since the day of the attempt to rob me at the flat.”

  “Good God!”

  “I know,” Mannering said. “It baffles me, too.”

  “You don’t even know her name?”

  “I know absolutely nothing about her except how she dresses and how she walks, and how she turns up at places where I don’t expect her. Do you know, Bill, I have never heard her speak? What is her voice like?”

  Bristow, gulping again, replied: “She has a slight European intonation but is very fluent. The draft was on New York, and when I telephoned Major’s they cleared it without a moment’s hesitation. She has credit up to a million pounds and a letter signed by the Chairman himself.”

  With an obvious effort Mannering asked: “What is her name?”

  “The name she gave was White.”

  “You mean you don’t think that is her real name?”

  “Could be,” Bristow answered dryly.

  “What did Major’s call her?”

  “Madam White.”

  “Madam?”

  “Yes – with the English pronunciation.”

  Mannering pushed his chair back so that his head touched the wall beneath the portrait, and was silent for what must have been two or even three minutes. Bristow continued to look at him levelly, and something in the ex-policeman’s manner reminded Mannering of the days when Bristow had sat in that very chair, questioning him as a detective from Scotland Yard and obviously doubting the truth of what he was saying. Now there was less doubt than puzzlement in Bristow’s manner.

  “Why didn’t you ask me what it was all about?”

  Bristow raised his hands in a helpless gesture.

  “It was your private business.”

  “You thought I knew her?”

  “Yes,” Bristow admitted simply, and Mannering watched from narrowed eyes, puzzled for a few seconds and then suddenly and overwhelmingly aware of what had been going on in Bristow’s mind.

  “You mean you thought it was an affaire? Oh, William, William!”

  “I didn’t know what to think, except that as you said nothing you must have had a good reason. I wondered if there had been a romantic interlude which you wanted to forget, but she—” He broke off.

  “Well, go on,” Mannering said impatiently. “You thought I was being haunted by an ex-mistress, is that it?”

  “I thought that might be the explanation,” Bristow told him.

  “Glad it isn’t?” asked Mannering.

  To his surprise Bristow didn’t immediately answer, when he would have expected him to answer emphatically: “Very glad,” or something as positive. For no man knew or liked Lorna more than Bristow. They sat in silence again until Bristow actually began to form a word, but before it was uttered a low-pitched buzzing sound came from one of two telephones on Mannering’s desk – the one from the shop. He lifted the receiver while still looking at Bristow, his lips set in a taut smile.

  “Yes?”

  “Mr. Mannering, I have a Mr. and Mrs. Wilson Waddington in the shop, and Mr. Waddington is extremely interested in the Ming vase which was in the window. He has made a close examination and would like to make an offer. I thought you would prefer to deal with the matter personally.”

  “Quite right, Charles,” Mannering said at once. “I’ll come and see them.” He put the receiver down slowly and then pursed his lips before saying to Bristow: “Bill, will you call Harcourt, Pace and Pace and tell them I have the Peek Collection valuation ready – would they like to come here and see it this afternoon, or shall I take it to them?” He turned Larraby’s note £3,423,100 round so that Bristow could see it, and the size of the figure obviously startled Bristow and took his mind off the girl in dark glasses.

  “I’ll call them at once,” he promised as Mannering got up from his chair and went to the door.

  Inside the shop it was another world; darker except where spotlights shone on special objets, or paintings had lights over them, and one or two places with tables on which customers could examine any small item in which they were particularly interested. On the right hand side of the shop Wilson Waddington was bending over the vase, and on the other side of the table his wife looked on with a similar expression. They were like worshippers at a shrine, the clearest indication that they loved beauty, and were not collectors simply for the sake of possession. Mannering waited by them, Charles by his side, until at last Waddington straightened up. He had a round, pinkish face; boyish. But there was nothing boyish in his voice or the expression of his slate-grey eyes.

  “Mr. Mannering,” said Charles, formally, “may I present Mr. and Mrs. Waddington.” As they shook hands, Charles faded into a more shadowy part of the shop.

  Mrs. Waddington was both taller and younger than her husband; and her smile was brighter and touched with a more general i
nterest. In Waddington collector and buyer were now coming to the fore.

  “Mr. Mannering, how much will you take for the vase?”

  Mannering answered: “Seven thousand five hundred pounds, which is fifteen thousand dollars.”

  “Would that include a certificate of its origin?”

  “It would include an opinion of its origin, history and value from the British Museum,” Mannering answered.

  “We are flying back to New York tomorrow morning,” said Waddington. “What formalities do you need to guarantee payment?”

  “The telephone number of your bank in New York,” Mannering said.

  “I live in Boston.”

  “I’m sorry, Boston.”

  “The number is …”

  Ten minutes later, after a telephone call to their bank, the Waddingtons prepared to leave. They were staying at the Westbury, close by, and would come for the vase at ten o’clock the following morning.

  “One thing,” Mannering said as he opened the door for them. “What brought you to Quinn’s?”

  Waddington smiled.

  “My wife brought me, under strong protest, to the milliner’s across the street, Mr. Mannering. When we went in there was an emerald tiara in your window; when we came out, this vase.” He moved to the vase and touched it gently with his forefinger, much as a lover might touch a woman’s cheek.

  “And the strange thing is they didn’t have a hat I liked except the one in the window – and that was an absurd price!”

  They were all laughing when they came out.

  Mannering went slowly back to his office, and the door opened as he reached it. Bristow appeared, took one look at Mannering’s face, and exclaimed: “They’ve bought it!”

  “They’re coming at ten tomorrow morning, to collect,” Mannering said. “You’re quite a mind-reader, Bill.” Suddenly he laughed, and went on quickly: “But not about romance. What did Harcourt and Pace say?”

  “I’ve an appointment at their office for you at half-past three,” Bristow told him, and as Mannering nodded went on: “Will you take all the papers or just the summary?”