The Baron Goes East

by John Creasey

  “Who told you?”

  “My father did not send me alone.”

  Mannering pictured a young man standing at the corner and reading a newspaper.

  “I should think not!”

  Shani stood up slowly, and for the first time she really pleaded. “You remember my father. He is a good man, and he is old – very old. The shock of the deaths of his two sons was very great. We who love him were afraid he would die. But he lived. Now, I know, he lives only that we find out the truth. He has much faith in you. Please do not disappoint him.”

  When Larraby returned, the taxi was still waiting, the Indian was still at his corner. Plummer, a plump, fair-haired and fresh-faced forty, had turned into Hart Row and gone into a shop doorway further along.

  Mannering locked the diamond in a wall-safe before he and Lorna saw Shani to the door and into Larraby’s taxi. They waited until the driver started his engine, then hurried through the shop and up the stairs. The window of a showroom filled with oil paintings overlooked Hart Row. The Mannerings stood close to the window.

  The waiting taxi started off immediately after the girl’s; the Indian on the corner jumped into it. Plummer appeared and followed only a few yards behind at the wheel of an open two-seater.

  He disappeared.

  Lorna said: “You laid that all on quickly, darling.”

  “Trifles,” said Mannering. He took her hands, squeezed. “I’m slipping. It took me ten minutes to realise what has got into you. You think India would be a good place for a holiday, do you?”

  “Darling,” said Lorna, “haven’t you always wanted to see the Taj Mahal? By moonlight? And haven’t you always wanted—”

  “No.”

  “And think of the different subjects I can paint.”

  “Such as the Taj Mahal by night and day. So now I’ve a pair of you to deal with.”

  “Oh, that’s easy,” said Lorna. “Just say yes to Shani and yes to me. I’m sorry that we’ll have to fly; I’d much rather go by sea, but it takes three weeks. Darling, it’s the first time I’ve really been able to enthuse over something reckless. Don’t say you’ve any doubts.”

  Mannering laughed. “Not serious doubts.” But she hadn’t really explained her mood. He turned towards the door. I’m going to telephone Phiroshah. We’ll talk to him before we talk to the girl again. There’s an outside chance that she isn’t his daughter.”

  “I suppose you’re wise, but there isn’t much doubt, is there?”

  At the head of the stairs Mannering squeezed her arm.

  “If we do take on this job we’ve one particular thing to get into our minds. Different values, different standards, different methods. You can’t judge an Indian by the same standards as you can a European. It’s not a case of better or worse – it’s simply different. With luck we’ll find out what all this is about and you’ll have some time for sightseeing and your brushes but—”

  Lorna said: “You’re really dubious about it, aren’t you?”

  Her tone echoed her surprise. Hadn’t she connected this with newspaper stories of Indian fanatics and the London robbery?

  He tightened his grip on her arm, and his voice was suddenly loud.

  “Of course I am. I don’t think I’ll go to India for Shani or for anyone else.” He released her and went downstairs quickly but softly, leaving her standing at the top – no longer puzzled, but alarmed. He reached the door at the foot of the stairs.

  A dark-skinned man stood at the office door. Another was bending over Larraby, who lay face downwards on the floor of the shop.

  CHAPTER FOUR

  PRESENT FOR BRISTOW

  Mannering heard a faint rustle behind him; Lorna was creeping down the stairs. From the moment he had been warned by a gasping sound less than twenty seconds had passed. The one dark-skinned man was still bending over Larraby, the other remained by the door. Both would move within the next few seconds. Both had heard the Mannerings talking, and would notice the silence after Mannering’s loud remark meant for their ears.

  Lorna was close behind Mannering.

  “Back,” he whispered. “Noisily. Shout out to me.”

  She turned at once. He withdrew his head as the man by Larraby began to turn. She called in a slightly husky voice: “John – are you in there?”

  He didn’t try to answer, but pressed close against the wall at the foot of the stairs. The men would probably come to investigate together, and would be armed. He took out his cigarette-case, then stretched up for a match lock pistol hanging on the wall above the doorway. He could just reach it.

  “Oh, there you are!” Lorna’s voice came clearly; she never needed much telling about tactics. The two men should be reassured.

  A head of oily, wavy, dark hair.

  Yusuf and Ali had been murdered . . .

  Mannering smashed the butt of the match lock on the head, moved forward and thrust his victim backwards. The other was a yard behind him; both had knives. The first man fell against his companion. Mannering went forward swiftly and smashed at the hand holding the knife. The knife dropped. The second man twisted himself free and ran towards the door, leaping over Larraby.

  Mannering stood to one side. The man might have a gun as well as a knife. There was no shooting. The door opened and closed with a bang and the fugitive raced along the street towards Bond Street.

  The other was trying to sit up. He had one hand at his head, and his eyes were dazed. Mannering hauled him to his feet by his coat lapels and pushed him into an old winged armchair. He struck him sharply on the side of the chin, pulled his arms behind the chair and tied the wrists together with picture cord.

  No one approached from the street; so the fugitive, even if noticed, hadn’t been seen to run from Quinns.

  Footsteps clattered on the stairs – Lorna in a hurry. She burst into sight.

  “John—”

  “All over,” said Mannering. “Call Bristow for me, will you?” He hurried to Larraby, who was groaning – a good sign. He straightened him out carefully, felt his head, discovered a good-sized bump but nothing broken. He lifted his manager into another armchair, took off his own coat and wrapped it round Larraby, and then stood back. Larraby’s eyelids were flickering.

  “All safe,” Mannering said. “Take it easy, Josh.” Loma, talking into the telephone, glanced round.

  “Bristow’s not there. He’s never there when we want him.”

  “Do they know when he’ll be back?”

  “Any minute.”

  “We’ll ring later.” Mannering went back to Larraby, who was licking his lips. Lorna went into the kitchenette behind the shop. She would put on a kettle and make some tea, and probably bring a blanket – one Larraby used when he occasionally stayed up all night on some special job. “We caught one of them. Josh; it’s all right.”

  “I—I’m sorry, Mr. Mannering. They were inside. Must have been here for hours. In that cupboard.” He pointed to a big Elizabethan cupboard which filled one corner. “See, the door’s open.”

  Mannering inspected the cupboard, and saw footmarks on the inside. The men could easily have slipped into the shop during the morning. There had been a delivery of pictures, men had been coming in and out, and he had been in the office while Larraby had superintended. The two chief assistants were off – one sick, one on holiday.

  Mannering went back to the Indian as Lorna came out, with a cup of tea in her hand, and a blanket over her arm. She pulled away Mannering’s coat and tucked the blanket round Larraby. He was all right, he could get up. She made him sit there and sip hot, sweet tea.

  The Indian was stirring.

  Mannering checked the cord at his wrists, then went to the street door, slipping on his coat. Two or three people were outside, two of them looking at a milliner’s next door; a shop where a piece of
tulle and some straw were turned into a fortune. A big policeman was coming from the corner, ponderous and familiar. Mannering beckoned, and he hurried.

  “Yes, sir?”

  “We’ve had a little trouble,” said Mannering. “My wife’s here with Larraby, who’s been hurt. I’ve to take a prisoner to the Yard right away, for Mr. Bristow. Keep an eye on things while I’m gone, will you?”

  “What kind of trouble, Mr. Mannering?”

  “Shoplifting.” That would serve.

  Mannering went back along the street to a small car-park, free to anyone but used mainly by the tenants of Hart Row. His black Rolls Bentley stood in the corner. He drove to the shop. The policeman was at the open door, a strong sense of duty keeping him there instead of inside asking the obvious questions. Mannering said enough to convince him that he was expected at the Yard and went to the back of the shop.

  Lorna left Larraby, who looked better.

  The Indian had come round.

  “What are you going to do?” Lorna asked.

  “Make him a present for Bristow,” said Mannering. He didn’t speak to the man as he untied the cord, pulled him out of the chair, then bound his wrists behind him more tightly. Lorna looked dubious.

  “Wouldn’t it be better to question him yourself?”

  “He won’t talk, except under pressure, and with a copper on the doorstep I daren’t press. If I behave nice and correctly, Bristow will probably tell the Bombay police that I’m worth looking after. It would be nice to have friends at court in Bombay.”

  “So you’ve decided.”

  “I couldn’t disappoint you when you’d set your mind on it!” Mannering gripped the Indian’s shoulder and pushed him towards the door. Lorna sat down on a stool, near Larraby, watching her husband. Mannering moved quickly and easily. He knew exactly what he was doing; probably he was working out moves that lay weeks ahead. She marvelled at it, at everything about him.

  Larraby said: “It’s amazing, isn’t it? He’s been touchy and difficult for weeks. Now this comes along, and he’s himself in two shakes of a lamb’s tail. I’m all right now, Mrs. Mannering, I’ll get up.”

  She could not stop him.

  Mannering bundled the Indian into the back of the car while the policeman held the door, then took the wheel. He drove off, thinking as much of Lorna as of the man in the back. She had been urging him to go away for a few months, leaving Larraby in charge; perhaps she saw this as the great chance.

  Forget that.

  He could take his prisoner to a quiet spot and try questioning him, but he had little time and it would be risky. The policeman had probably called the Yard or his station by now. Mannering headed for the Yard.

  What should he tell Bristow? Any part of the story about the blue diamond? Or anything that would connect the prisoner with that and old Phiroshah?

  Mannering reached the big new building of Scotland Yard which housed the Criminal Investigation Department. The man on duty at the gates recognised, saluted and waved him inside. A dozen cars were parked at the foot of an imposing flight of stone steps. Mannering helped his prisoner out, watched by the gate duty man and two others who stood at the top of the steps.

  The sergeant at the top of the steps saluted.

  “Brought us a present, Mr. Mannering?”

  “That’s right. Think Mr. Bristow will like him?”

  “Shouldn’t be surprised. Does he know you’re coming?”

  “I think so. I was told he’d be in.”

  “Came back ten minutes ago,” said the sergeant. “I’ll telephone him. Want any help??”

  “No, thanks, but if you—”

  Mannering broke off, felt the Indian writhe and twist, actually saw the cord fall from his wrists. The man swung on his toes and dived between Mannering and the sergeant towards the steps. He was as swift as an arrow. Mannering shot out a leg and the man kicked against it and fell. The sergeant, a portly fifty, went down in a flying tackle, caught the man’s legs and hugged them.

  Mannering said mildly: “Perhaps I’d better have some help after all.”

  “Slippery devil.” The sergeant slid a pair of handcuffs from his pocket, snapped them on and stood up, yanking the man after him. “Smith, go along with Mr. Mannering. He won’t slip those in a hurry, sir.”

  “I’m sure he won’t.” Mannering held the Indian’s right arm, the policeman his left, and they walked to the lift and went up to Bristow’s office.

  Mannering tapped on Bristow’s door and received a gruff “Come in”. He opened the door and pushed the Indian inside. Bristow gaped. “Thanks, Smith,” Mannering said to the constable, then pushed the prisoner into one of two armchairs in Bristow’s long, narrow office. This overlooked the Thames Embankment, and May’s sunshine had brought the leaves of the plane trees to pale green beauty; one was just outside the window, its nearer branches almost within arm’s reach.

  “There you are,” said Mannering. “Good for the evil aspersions you were so busy with this morning.” He grinned. “How’s that for pomposity?”

  The Indian sat silent and sullen, meeting Bristow’s gaze defiantly.

  Bristow lit a cigarette, studied first the Indian, then Mannering, and made a palpable effort to regain his self-control. He blew smoke-rings as he said: “Isn’t there a police station near you?”

  “I could have tried Great Marlborough Street, but as I wanted a word with you I thought I’d bring him in person. Care to have him charged with assault on Carraby while we have a chat?”

  Bristow said: “I wonder what you really want.” But he sent for a sergeant and gave instructions. The sullen Indian was taken out. Bristow lit a cigarette from the stub of one that was only half-smoked, leaned back in his chair, and said: “Now what?”

  Mannering murmured: “In confidence, off the record, not for publication.”

  “I’m not a newspaperman.”

  “Of course,” went on Mannering, “I could just leave things as they are and you guessing. But I thought you’d like to know what he really came for.”

  Bristow smoothed down his moustache.

  “That blue diamond. Where’s the mystery?”

  He was no fool. He could be obstinate, could refuse to listen to a story in confidence. If he refused, Mannering need say nothing but would not gain what he wanted – recommendation to the Bombay police. He sat back, smiling.

  “All right, let’s have it,” Bristow said.

  He did not have to help, even when he knew the story. Mannering had been the Baron, and no policeman could forget that. Any policeman, even Bristow, who had become a friend, might rebel against recommending him to another police force, especially in a country bristling with jewels.

  Mannering felt on edge, briskly though he talked.

  CHAPTER FIVE

  TICKETS FOR TWO

  Bristow listened, Mannering talked and thought. There were a dozen reasons why the Yard man should decide that this was an official matter, and that the only help he could give was official. Mannering “forgot” to say that Yusuf Phiroshah had been murdered in New York; “forgot” to mention that the Maharajah of Ganpore was believed to have a store of the blue diamonds. Old Aly Phiroshah wanted help; it would be a business trip and holiday combined. If he, Mannering, ran into trouble, it would be invaluable if he could call on the Indian police knowing that he had the moral support of Bristow of the Yard.

  He etched in the raid by the two Indians; obviously they had believed that Shani had the diamond and had broken in to try to get it. The smaller of the two men had escaped, the larger was the prisoner.

  “What’s his name?” Bristow asked.

  “I don’t know.”

  “So you really want to convince me that you haven’t questioned him.”

  “It can’t be half an hour since I caugh
t him,” Mannering pointed out.

  “Almost a reformed character, aren’t you? Well, whatever happens won’t be on my doorstep. I’ll tell them at Bombay, Delhi and Calcutta what a wonderful amateur detective you are and how often you’ve helped the Yard. I’ll forget to tell them that you’re the best man at cracking a crib in England.”

  Mannering kept a straight face.

  “That’s fine, Bill.”

  “Lorna going?” asked Bristow.

  “She’d like to.”

  “I don’t know that I’d take her,” said Bristow thoughtfully. “I’m not sure that India’s a place for a white woman these days.”

  “Don’t tell me you know India.”

  Bristow grinned. “Bombay, Calcutta and Madras—yes. Years ago.” He picked up the telephone and said into it: “Get me Chamberlin.” He held on, and added for Mannering’s benefit: “Chamberlin knows more about India than anyone here. He went to study drugs there, a year ago. It strengthens our hand when we’re dealing with our floating Indian population. We get some bad ones. Hallo—Chamberlin. Bristow . . . Do you know if old Kana is still working at Bombay? . . . He is? . . . Good, thanks.” Bristow rang off and chuckled. “Kana’s one of the Chiefs of Police. He was high up, even when the upper crust of their C.I.D. was European. He’s a shrewd chap, and I think he’ll tolerate you. Give him my personal regards, and take him a couple of pounds of barley sugar pieces. Don’t let him get near Lorna; she’ll scream out that she wants to paint him, and that would mean leaving her alone with him for too long.”

  “Kana,” echoed Mannering. “Bill, after this I forgive you for everything.”

  “Anyone who’s going to try to tackle a job in India has my sympathy. We shall probably have to send wreaths! Now what about this chap you brought in?”

  “You could look for his friend and others who might work with him,” said Mannering. “They could have followed Shani here, or they may be local people who’ve had instructions from India.”