The Baron Returns

by John Creasey

  ‘I can believe it,’ said Mannering, and he glanced at her. She was smiling, and she looked nice, but there was a suggestion of aloofness about her beauty, almost as if she had not decided whether to accept him. Certainly Mannering found it hard to believe she had been at Teevens’s house for any unlawful purpose.

  The questions he had been aching to ask went by the board.

  ‘I’ll get to Winchester as soon as I can,’ he told her. ‘Tidy your hair, and look tired, will you? Have you any lipstick?’

  ‘Yes.’ She held up a small vanity bag, and Mannering actually chuckled. She had held on to the bag, at all costs.

  ‘Why?’ she asked.

  ‘I’m going to stop the car to put on my hat and coat,’ he said, ‘dab a bit of lipstick on as if you’ve smeared it a little. Be liberal with the powder – rouge too, if you’ve got it.’

  She took everything he said for granted, and raised no questions as Mannering pulled into the side. They had been on the road for ten minutes, which meant that if the missing servant had been at the telephone, the police had known of the burglary for a quarter of an hour. At any moment he might see a patrol.

  He slipped into his coat and popped the opera-hat open. The girl laughed suddenly. It was good to feel she could laugh just then.

  Mannering sat back in the driving seat, and they were moving again when he spoke. The girl had used lipstick, powder and a comb quickly.

  ‘Have you seen what I’m driving at?’

  ‘I’ve an idea. I—oh!’ She broke off, gasping.

  ‘What is it?’ asked Mannering, aware of the sudden alarm in her voice.

  ‘Lights,’ she said tensely. ‘Behind us.’

  Mannering glanced into the driving mirror and could see the road behind them clearly. He saw the two white orbs, and knew that there was a fair chance that they belonged to a police patrol car. It was not certain, of course, but this road carried very little traffic at night.

  He glanced at the girl. Although her lips were set her eyes were wide open and gleaming. She might be scared of what would happen, but she was calm enough to tackle any emergency.

  ‘You’re doing nicely,’ he told her. As she turned towards him he saw that she had over-painted her lips and rouged her cheeks just as he had asked. She looked . . .

  ‘Shut your eyes,’ he added.

  The girl obeyed again, and Mannering’s lips twitched. Then he glanced into the mirror again, seeing that the approaching car was catching up with them; and he was doing a steady sixty.

  Did it mean pursuit?

  When he had told his companion the chances were fifty-fifty he had not reckoned on trouble coming as quickly as this. He waited, the expression in his eyes very hard. The other car’s engine was audible now, and the headlights seemed to leap and sway behind them.

  He kept the speedometer at sixty, knowing it would justify suspicion if he went faster.

  The car, a small M.G., shot past them at sixty-five, and as it passed he caught a glimpse of the peak-capped occupants. He saw it swerve, heard the gong banging, and pulled up quickly, his heart thumping. He stopped within a foot of the police car, and his hand was still on the brake when a patrol-man reached the Austin. For sheer speed that policeman could claim full marks. Mannering hoped devoutly that his brains were not as good as his muscles.

  He looked up at the man, as if in annoyance. The policeman showed immediate respect for his opera-hat, and saluted.

  ‘I’m sorry to worry you, sir, but . . .’

  ‘This road,’ said Mannering, affecting a throaty voice that he occasionally used, ‘is not speed controlled, is it?’

  The stare, the manner and the opera-hat together seemed to make the policeman wilt, and when he started to speak the girl opened her eyes. Mannering felt her start in feigned surprise. She stared at the constable with mingled insolence and pertness which seemed to strike just the right note.

  ‘Peter! Who is this man?’

  ‘Sorry to stop you, sir.’ The constable spoke quickly, in the Hampshire dialect. ‘It wasn’t for speeding. There’s been a burglary near by. I . . .’

  Mannering didn’t turn a hair, and the girl’s behaviour was little short of miraculous. She had even invented a name for him.

  ‘I don’t wonder,’ said Mannering tartly, ‘with so many police on the road. A living disgrace, and I’ve always said so. What are the police for? I ask you that, what . . .’

  The youthful patrol-man seemed worried and easy to handle; but the driver might not be so easy. He was approaching now – a stocky, resolute-looking man whose sergeant’s stripes showed in the car lights.

  ‘All right, Jack,’ he said, and Mannering knew a masterful voice when he heard one. The girl at his side was still looking tired, indignant and reproachful.

  ‘May I see your licence, sir?’ Mannering was ready for that, and he had a licence in the name of Mr. Mayle in the dashboard pocket. He grumbled, but produced it.

  ‘Thank you, sir. Insurance, please?’

  ‘I haven’t got the cover note with me,’ said Mannering, and the sergeant nodded.

  ‘Has any other vehicle passed you on the road in the last fifteen minutes?’

  ‘Two or three cars,’ Mannering lied. ‘A Jaguar, a Morris Minor and a Bentley.’

  ‘Thank you.’ The driver was punctilious, while Mannering had another uneasy thought in his mind. Had anyone at the house seen the girl?

  The watchman would not have recovered yet, and in any case these men could have responded only to an early call. If the girl had been seen they were finished, for it would mean enquiries, and he had the diamonds as well as other things in his pocket. But if she had not been seen, he still had a chance, for the police would be looking for a solitary motorist.

  ‘Were they speeding?’ The sergeant asked.

  ‘All of them,’ said Mannering as promptly as before. ‘Damned sight too fast.’ He still looked affronted, although he was thawing a little. He disliked the man’s steady gaze, but told himself he would have acted by now had he held any real suspicions.

  ‘I see,’ said the sergeant. ‘Purely as a formality, sir, will you tell us where you’ve come from?’

  Mannering drew a deep breath. Here was the worst, the most ticklish part of the job, and he hardly knew how to answer. If his story was checked he could not prove an alibi.

  ‘I,’ he began, and his tone was rasping. ‘I . . .’

  And then the girl rested a hand on his arm.

  ‘You’d better tell them,’ she said, and Mannering could have laughed aloud, for there was a catch in her voice as if she was really nervous. ‘They—they will be discreet, I’m sure.’

  ‘We certainly will, miss,’ said the tough-looking sergeant. Mannering, his heart thumping, wondered what her next move would be. The girl had taken control, and she was good. His job for the moment was to be on his dignity.

  ‘They’ve no right to know!’ he snapped. ‘We’re free citizens, and the country is free to us. Daphne, don’t tell them! I insist!’

  His Daphne was as good as her Peter, and the first policeman was beginning to look uncomfortable. The driver stared at Mannering without a change of expression.

  ‘I’m sorry, sir, but we know the thief is in this neighbourhood, and everyone who is within the radius must explain where they’ve been. It’s purely a matter of routine.’

  ‘Routine? Routine my . . .’

  ‘Peter, dear,’ interrupted Daphne, and the pressure of her fingers on Mannering’s arm increased. ‘It can’t be helped. We’ve just come from Lord Rombell’s, sergeant. Mr.—Peter,’ she corrected herself hastily, ‘arranged to meet me at midnight. We . . .’

  ‘I consider it an outrage,’ stormed Mannering, ‘that private information should be forced from us! I refuse to say another word. Telep
hone Lord Rombell, if you must.’

  The sergeant drew a deep breath. Whether he was suspicious or whether he was annoyed by Mannering’s manner it was impossible to tell, but Mannering was hanging on to his words with a tenseness it was difficult to hide.

  ‘Thank you, miss.’ The man was annoyed with Mannering. ‘If you will give me your name and address . . .’

  ‘I’m Philippa Grey, and I am staying with Lord Rombell,’ said ‘Daphne’, and the Baron’s heart thumped. ‘Daphne is—Daphne’s the name Peter prefers to use.’

  ‘I quite understand, Miss Grey,’ said the sergeant with heavy humour. ‘And you, sir?’

  ‘You have it on the licence, man!’ snapped Mannering in his haughtiest voice. ‘James Peter Mayle of The Grove, Basingstoke. But if a word of this ever leaks out, officer, I warn you there’ll be trouble.’

  ‘You needn’t be afraid of that, sir.’ The sergeant drew back, and his companion turned away as if with relief. ‘Daphne’ smiled at them both as only she could smile, and Mannering pressed her arm, the only way he could show his appreciation.

  ‘For an eloping couple,’ said John Mannering, leaning with his back against the wall of his Chelsea flat and smiling at a tired but cheerful ‘Daphne’, ‘I think we did very well. If you hadn’t jumped into the breach as quickly as you did the Lord knows where we’d be now.’

  ‘In a police cell, probably,’ said Philippa Grey in the matter-of-fact tone Mannering had learned to expect from her in the past few hours. ‘If it comes to that I should have been in Queer Street if you hadn’t acted so—well, acted.’

  ‘Yes. But what will Lord Rombell say?’

  It was a point worth considering.

  They had reached Winchester twenty minutes after the police car had left them, and they had known that only the mention of Lord Rombell’s name had saved them from further questioning. Rombell was a power in that locality, and the police had not cared to take chances.

  They had found an all-night café near Winchester, refreshed themselves, and driven to London. One way and the other it had taken them from one o’clock until eight o’clock. Now they were in Mannering’s Bloom Street flat, and for the first time Mannering was allowing himself to ask questions.

  The more he saw of Philippa, the more he liked her. She was quick-witted, wholesome, something more than pretty, and she had a lively sense of humour – a combination that he had only met once or twice before, particularly in Lorna Fauntley.

  Lorna Fauntley and John Mannering were next door to engaged, according to Mayfair rumours. Just how true it was only Mannering and Lorna knew. At the moment Lorna was in the north with Lady Fauntley, and Mannering had not told her of his intention of visiting Gus Teevens.

  For the present the girl who called herself Philippa Grey was the only problem. Mannering could not make up his mind just what she was going to do, or just what she had done. If she had used Rombell’s name as a shot in the dark, the Baron might have thrown away his Chelsea address, for he would never be able to go there again if the police made inquiries. On the other hand he felt that she did know the peer.

  Philippa Grey laughed. It was the first time that Mannering had seen her laugh.

  ‘Jimmy will think me a little fool,’ she said. ‘He’ll be quite sure I did meet you by appointment. He’ll be sure I did plan an elopement. He might even think we spent the night together. You don’t blush easily, do you?’

  ‘I’ve a perfect sang-froid,’ Mannering assured her.

  ‘I believe you have. Well – that’s all right, isn’t it?’

  ‘Couldn’t be better,’ agreed Mannering, and he had not been so relieved for years. ‘I didn’t dream you’d given your light name.’

  The girl’s eyes sparkled. ‘My conscience was clear.’

  ‘Touché.’ Mannering chuckled. ‘Forgive me if I’m dropping a brick, but I don’t remember seeing you, and I should have if you’re a friend of Jimmy Rombell’s. You should know me, too.’

  ‘I knew you the moment the mask came off,’ she declared. ‘I don’t know. John Mannering – the Baron!’

  Mannering’s smile was tinged with irony.

  ‘So you even guessed the Baron?’

  ‘The blue mask and the gas-pistol made that easy. But—’ She shook her head and smiled at him. ‘It’s too late to be surprised. I’ve been getting used to the idea since I realised it. Now I suppose you want to know what I was doing at Teevens’s place?’

  ‘I’m not pressing the point. However . . .’

  ‘You won’t let me go until you know?’

  Mannering had been wondering for most of the journey from Hampshire who she was and what she had been doing at Teevens’s place, and he had not tried to guess. It had even passed through his mind that she had also gone for the diamonds, but she certainly wasn’t the girl whom Teevens had taken them from. That left him with an open mind and a problem complicated by the fact that Philippa Grey was a familiar of Lord Rombell’s, one of the more lively of the modern nobility, and an acquaintance of Mannering’s.

  ‘I won’t say you can’t go,’ Mannering said slowly. ‘But—’

  ‘I won’t keep you on tenterhooks any longer,’ Philippa Grey said. ‘I went for Alice Purnall’s necklace. Oh, I know it was mad, but Alice is absolutely desperate! I saw her last night after Teevens had taken the diamonds, and she broke down.’

  Philippa Grey was looking straight ahead of her, while the Baron was realising he had been very near the mark. Why on earth should she have taken such a risk for Teevens’s victim?

  Philippa went on quickly. ‘Alice and I have been such friends – I might say she’s been my only close friend – and we’re neither of us well off. I do have enough to live on, while she hasn’t. Jimmy Rombell’s place – Jimmy’s my cousin, by the way – is near Teevens’s. I decided to go and see whether it might be possible to get it. The beast swindled her, you know. One of the ground floor windows was open so that I could just squeeze through, and I worked up enough courage to go in. Then the din started, and I couldn’t find the room! I was waiting in that passage so scared that I nearly jumped on you. If it hadn’t been for the mask, I would have done.’

  ‘It isn’t often it works that way,’ said Mannering. The girl became even more conscious of his dark, tanned face, his white teeth, his hazel eyes. She could well understand why he was lionised, but she saw now that he was as level-headed as he was attractive. ‘Forgive me saying it was a damned silly thing to do,’ Mannering went on.

  ‘I’d begun to realise it,’ admitted Philippa Grey.

  ‘Try and finish,’ advised Mannering. ‘Of course, some people can get away with it but I assure you it’s more luck than judgment. It’s not a woman’s job by a long way. You were perilously close to being gaoled as my accomplice last night.’

  ‘Thank you,’ said Philippa Grey. ‘Is the lecture finished?’

  ‘You’re a good pupil,’ said Mannering. He took a small case from his pocket. ‘I don’t need to say this twice. Apart from ourselves, tonight’s incidents are to be completely forgotten?’

  ‘Can’t I even boast that I helped the Baron to escape?’

  ‘You certainly cannot!’

  ‘All right.’ She was laughing at him, but yawned suddenly. ‘Oh, I’m so tired! I must get to the Elan, and then telephone Jimmy. He’ll have heard from the police by now, and he’ll be anxious. By the way, you won’t tell Alice Purnall about this?’

  ‘Certainly not,’ said John Mannering. He opened the case suddenly, with a sleight of hand that took her by surprise. ‘But you can give her a present. Or would you prefer me to sell them and give her the proceeds?’

  Philippa Grey stared at this blazing necklet of diamonds on the plush of the case. Alice Purnall’s diamonds – Gus Teevens’s diamonds. She didn’t really understand afterwards why it came with such
a shock of surprise.

  ‘You—you found them?’

  ‘You’re talking to the Baron,’ murmured Mannering. ‘There were one or two other things, and we’ll both be rewarded.’

  Philippa stared up at him for a moment without speaking. She was sitting back in the easy chair – she was dressed in the evening frock which had helped to persuade the police-sergeant that she had spoken the truth – and had washed off the superfluous rouge and lipstick. Altogether she looked good; Mannering told himself that was the best word for her.

  She stood up slowly. ‘You mean me to have these for Alice?’

  ‘Of course.’ He held out the case to her, and as she took it he could not guess what she was thinking. Then, with a curious kind of considered impulsiveness, she put her arms about him, stretched up, and pressed her lips against his.

  ‘I’ll always remember it,’ she said, and before he had really recovered she was out of the flat. He heard her hurrying down the stairs.

  Mannering stood where he was for a few moments, half frowning. Then he forced a smile.

  ‘That’s that,’ he said. ‘Now I’ll have to get busy. Bristow will soon be looking round.’

  He was thinking of Detective-Superintendent William Bristow – Old Bill at Scotland Yard – who invariably suspected Mannering (or the Baron, for he knew but could not prove the two men were one and the same), and when he learned of the country house burglary would certainly pay this flat a visit. Mannering had an accommodation address – that of Mr. Mayle, the one he had given the Hampshire sergeant – which he could use. The quicker he used it for the other proceeds of the burglary the better.

  The money would be safer at the Wimbledon house, so would the trinkets. There were four of them, rings and earrings, worth perhaps five hundred pounds in the only market in which Mannering could dispose of them. He thumbed through the notes, and reached the thirty mark before he found a slip of paper between them. He took the slip out, expecting to find it blank, several words were pencilled on it, and his interest quickened.