by John Creasey
‘’Ad a touch of ‘flu, sir, so ‘e’ll be out this week. I’ll give yer a turn.’
‘I couldn’t miss you with a penknife, George. Had any strangers here lately?’
‘Noo members, sir? One or two. Who was you thinking of?’
‘A man named Dedcote or Dencot or . . .’
‘Didcotte, sir. Oh, he’s not a noo member. Been here fer years, but ‘e travels a lot – only in London a couple of months in a year.’
‘Is he in London now?’
‘Expecting him here any time,’ said George Willis. ‘Shall I tell him you were asking about him?’
‘Mum’s the word, George. I’ve only heard of him, and I’m not sure . . .’
‘You’d like Mr. Didcotte,’ said George Willis, with complete assurance. ‘Just your type, sir, allowing the liberty. Mum’s the word O.K., but I’ll drop a hint when he comes in.’
Mannering amused himself for the next twenty minutes on the ropes and the parallel bars. Altogether he had been working out for an hour when George sauntered up to him.
‘Mr. Didcotte’s comin’ out of the dressing rooms, sir, for a bout. Shall I suggest ‘e has it with you?’
‘What’s this?’ demanded Mannering darkly. ‘A plot?’
‘Don’t ‘it ‘im ‘ard,’ requested Mr. Willis with a wide grin. ‘Comin’ in right now, sir. I’ll introduce you.’
George sauntered away, and Mannering jumped five feet from a standing start, moving towards the door and Jonathan Didcotte.
Didcotte was as tall as Mannering, if not taller – near middle-age, although carrying himself like a young man. He took a horse in his stride, and tapped George Willis’s shoulder.
Mannering studied Didcotte closely while seeming to stand easy. The man was not good-looking, but seemed the healthy, golf-and-tennis type. His features were good, except for his broken nose. His skin was a little on the ruddy side, his eyes were blue and alert.
And this was the man who had been connected with the Krugen and Raviky swindles.
Willis turned round.
‘You wouldn’t mind, Mr. Mannering, would you?’
Mannering sauntered towards the couple, smiling to Didcotte. ‘Of course not. What is it?’
‘Mr. Didcotte would like a few rounds, sir, and I’m telling him you’ve blown me proper.’
Mannering smiled at Didcotte.
‘Really care for a spar?’
‘Treat me gently,’ murmured Didcotte in the rather slow, slurred voice of the Southern American. When he took off his sweater Mannering saw that he was in excellent condition. And when they finished with the gloves twenty minutes later Mannering had considerable respect for Jonathan Didcotte. He was a careful, thoughtful boxer, as distinct from a fighter, and Mannering’s chest was red from several sharp blows. Didcotte’s broken nose looked a little on the puffy side.
‘That’s enough,’ he smiled. ‘I’ve not seen you here before have I? Although the name’s familiar.’
‘I haven’t noticed you,’ Mannering said. ‘It’s odd, George usually puts the well-matched pairs together.’
‘Perhaps he looks on you as dangerous,’ suggested Didcotte.
Mannering laughed, but a question flashed suddenly through his mind. That remark sounded almost as though Didcotte knew something he should not know. It might have been pure coincidence, of course, but that ‘dangerous’ had sounded full of double meaning.
They had a shower, dressed and walked into the main club rooms. A billiard-table was free, and Mannering raised his brows interrogatively. Didcotte nodded.
‘And I’ll take a lemon squash,’ he said.
‘I’ll join you. Something stronger later.’
‘I’m always a soft drinker,’ smiled Didcotte, taking a cue and rolling it on the table. ‘Will you break?’
‘We’ll toss for it.’
‘May the slickest man win!’ said Jonathan Didcotte.
Again Mannering had the feeling that there was more than the surface meaning in the words. Didcotte’s manner and intonation suggested it, and Mannering was wary.
He was no beginner with a cue, but Didcotte left him standing, reaching five hundred in just over the hour. Mannering put up his cue and proffered cigarettes.
Didcotte shook his head.
‘No, thanks. The only one of the three vices I’ve got is swearing.’ He was looking into Mannering’s eyes, and smiling. Those blue eyes did hint at something, but Mannering could not be sure what it was, although his mind was a medley of thoughts and questions now. He lit his own cigarette as Didcotte glanced round the deserted billiard-room.
‘Well, I’ll be going. Oh, and thanks.’
‘Thank you,’ smiled Mannering.
‘Only mine are due,’ said Jonathan Didcotte, with a cheerful laugh. ‘I was worried all the time Teevens had those papers. When you’ve finished with them you’ll let me know?’
Chapter Eleven
CHALLENGE!
The only change in Mannering’s expression was a slight tightening of his lips, and a narrowing of his eyes. His smile remained, and his eyes were still gleaming, although he succeeded in creating the impression that he was puzzled. He was feeling far more helpless than he had when the three policemen had pounced on him on the night of the Lobjoit robbery. The words from the American were devastating. Didcotte knew!
But damn it – Didcotte could not know.
‘”Teevens” has a familiar ring,’ murmured Mannering at last, ‘but I don’t quite get the meaning of “the papers”.’
‘You don’t have to bluff with me, friend. I’ve a different way of earning a living – that’s all; and with those papers you’ve enough to see me in a French prison for years. So be frank, won’t you?’
‘I’m as frank as the day, but obtuse. Is it a new game of “knock, knock”?’
‘My dear Mannering, do I look like a joker? I know all about the robbery.’
Mannering lit another cigarette. He was recovering his balance, although Didcotte’s knowledge still startled him.
‘That’s fine. Now if you’ll tell me we’ll share the secret.’
‘Perhaps you’re wise,’ Didcotte said. ‘I’d like to tell you this, all the same. I need those papers badly, and I’m going to get them. Oh, I shan’t get rough, but I’ll get them.’
‘I’ll get some papers to oblige,’ offered Mannering.
‘Thanks. Are you’—Didcotte’s eyes were gleaming—’free for dinner tonight?’
‘Yes.’
‘I’ve been wanting a talk with you. At my hotel?’
‘I know a splendid and secluded corner at the Elan,’ said Mannering.
‘Just as you like.’ Didcotte looked thoughtful. ‘Seven forty-five at the Elan.’
‘I’ll be there,’ said Mannering.
Mannering smiled and waved, then sauntered towards the reading-room. Didcotte left Mendor’s – the club was in Shaftesbury Avenue – leaving behind him a very thoughtful man. Mannering had not been so puzzled for a long time past, although one thing was absolutely certain.
Didcotte knew him as the Baron.
The American’s brazen nerve and his easy sang-froid combined to make Mannering like him. Yet beneath those smiling blue eyes and that soft, slurred voice Mannering had seen a power which demanded respect, and although he tried to think little of the affair, he was worried. Didcotte would be a different proposition from Teevens.
How could the American have learned the truth?
There were two possible sources of information as far as Mannering could see – Flick Leverson or Gus Teevens. Mannering ruled Leverson out; so Teevens had been talking.
That seemed the solution, but Mannering knew that he would not be satisfied or easy in his mind until he was really sure.
There was a letter from Scotland waiting at the Bloom Street flat, and the next hour passed quickly. Letters from Lorna were few and far between, usually saying very little, but somehow conjuring up her face, which could be mutinous and contemptuous and yet change suddenly and look divine. Mannering was in a good frame of mind when he reached the Elan. He had expected Didcotte to be punctual, but at seven-fifty Didcotte had not arrived. He began to smile – and then suddenly alarm surged up in him.
The attendants and some of the guests at the Elan saw him rush to the swing-doors and shout for a taxi. As they gaped, he gave his Bloom Street address to the cabby, and sat back, angry with himself for being blind. He should have seen through Didcotte’s talk, and should have suspected the trick.
The taxi pulled up. Mannering gave a note to the cabby, and said, ‘Wait for me, and watch anyone who comes out.’
Mannering’s flat was on the second floor, and the lift was waiting. He stopped at his landing and hurried along to his flat. Either he was crazy, or . . .
He inserted the key and turned it slowly. Was he imagining things or could he hear a man’s breathing behind the door?
Manering flung the door open, half expecting to see it bounce back at him and to hear an oath as it banged against the intruder. He was wrong; there was no one behind the door, but there was someone in the room.
‘Well, well,’ said the man from the other side, and Mannering swung round to find himself facing Mr. Jonathan Didcotte, who was standing in the doorway of the bathroom and holding an automatic pistol in his right hand.
Mannering said nothing for a moment; he was still too angry with himself and with Didcotte. He knew now that the idea which had sent him to the flat, the sudden suspicion that Didcotte was capable of breaking in and searching for the papers, had been justified. But he had not expected to find the American armed.
‘Surely you’re not upset,’ murmured Didcotte, his smile as spontaneous as ever. ‘By the way you flung that door back I should have thought you were expecting a visitor. You might shut it behind you.’
Mannering smiled with an effort and closed the door. He was in control of himself, and somehow he could not help a feeling that Didcotte was capable of using the gun.
‘I expected you,’ he admitted, and slipped his hand into his pocket. He saw the way Didcotte’s hand tightened about the gun, and chuckled as he withdrew his cigarette case.
‘You don’t smoke, do you?’
‘No. Mannering, I hate to say this, but I’m a good shot.’
‘Our hangmen are good and punctual, too,’ flashed Mannering.
‘I’ve heard about them. And that reminds me; I’m sorry I was late at the Elan, Mannering. If you’d waited another twenty minutes I would have joined you.’
‘I don’t doubt it. Why don’t you put that gun away?’
‘I’ve an idea it might be useful.’
‘Between friends it’s hardly necessary.’
‘Friends?’ asked Jonathan Didcotte, raising his left eyebrow. He looked distinguished in his perfectly-cut evening clothes, the shoulders of which were padded and very square. He was wearing an opera-hat, and Mannering and he might have been taken for twins.
‘Why not?’ Mannering demanded. ‘I’m not thinking of telephoning the police. I’d like to hear more about this. And I can’t see why we shouldn’t finish our conversation. Unless you’d prefer a snack meal here?’
Jonathan Didcotte eyed the Baron for thirty seconds, reflectively and humorously. Then, to Mannering’s relief he pocketed his gun.
‘The Elan, I think,’ he said.
‘Good!’ Mannering was smiling. ‘By the way, are you here after those mysterious papers?’
‘I am.’
‘If I knew anything about them,’ said Mannering, with an easy smile, ‘I certainly wouldn’t keep them here. Before we go tell me who you think I am?’
‘The Baron,’ said Didcotte without hesitation.
‘Hm—mm. It’s a flattering idea, and I’ve a soft spot for the chap. I believe he did the job for me at Lobjoit’s, although my association with crime is chiefly for amusement. What made you think so?’
Didcotte drew a deep breath, and his eyes were narrowed.
‘I talked to Teevens after he’d lost my papers, and put two and two together.’
Mannering frowned.
‘That’s awkward,’ he said. ‘Both Teevens and you with the same fancy.’
‘I don’t make a habit of talking,’ flashed Didcotte.
‘But Teevens obviously does.’
‘I think that I rather frightened Teevens,’ Didcotte said. ‘While he had those papers he had me in a very awkward position. But now Teevens is on the spot.’
Mannering laughed and turned towards the door.
‘Teevens is having a bad time,’ he observed. ‘He’s a lousy specimen of a man, but don’t tell me he was thinking of blackmail?’
‘Those papers could gaol me for years. He’s been blackmailing me for a long time,’ said Jonathan Didcotte frankly. ‘Not for a great deal, fortunately. I’ve been in the States, of course, and one of my chief reasons for coming to England this year was to deal with Teevens.’
They seemed like close friends as they went into the lift and took the waiting taxi. But if Mannering was keeping his end up he was also thinking hard. Didcotte certainly could be a tough customer, as certainly as he was likeable.
They reached the Elan at twenty-past eight. Henri, the head waiter, bowed towards Mannering and ushered him to a corner table. Mannering treated Henri as a master, and Henri treated Mannering as a gentleman – a perfect arrangement. Even Didcotte’s insistence on soft drinks did not cause Henri to raise a speculative eyebrow. The trout that followed clear soup was delicious, the poulet à la fricassée perfect; the Elan had a Chateau Pliney that was just old enough to be superb.
Didcotte’s presence gave it a piquancy.
Mannering’s presence gave the Elan dining-room a piquancy to others, for a dozen women eyed him in various ways, among them Alice Vavasour, of the Lenville Theatre, who had once thought to make a conquest. Mannering knew that he was being discussed at a dozen tables, and that there was probably a great deal of speculation as to Didcotte’s identity.
‘You’re popular,’ Didcotte remarked.
‘You’ve noticed it?’
‘I’m surprised you’ve dared to dine with me.’
‘You’re not known to the police records, are you?’
‘Yet?’ said Didcotte speculatively. ‘No.’
‘Are you sure you won’t have a liqueur?’ Mannering changed the subject.
‘Thanks – no; but you carry on.’
Henri brought a Benedictine and cigars, and raised both brows when Didcotte declined.
‘You’ve something of a reputation as a gambler, haven’t you?’ Didcotte asked.
‘That’s true.’
‘I’ve a proposition that might interest you,’ said Didcotte. ‘I need those papers, and . . .’
‘I haven’t got them.’
‘Right,’ said Didcotte. ‘We’ll compromise and say that you could get them if you put yourself out. Is that better?’
‘A little.’
‘That’s good,’ said Didcotte. ‘Now, I’ve taken a little place in Surrey. The Towers, near Shere. Perhaps you know Addleman’s old castle?’
‘A little place?’ retorted the Baron, who knew The Towers. ‘Are you thinking of taking it down stone by stone and sending it back home?’
‘It’s an idea,’ admitted Didcotte. ‘But before I do that I’ll be staying there for a couple of months. It has a keep, maybe you know?’
Mannering nodded, and his curiosity was at a higher pitch than ever. The Towers, near Shere, had once been the ancestral home of Lord A
ddleman, before he had lost his money at Monte Carlo. Mannering had been there once or twice, and he knew the keep, a dark, damp, eerie place, filled with shadows that the easily impressed called ghosts.
‘In that keep,’ smiled Jonathan Didcotte, ‘I keep what jewels I have over here. Or, more accurately, my wife’s jewels.’
‘You’re married?’ ejaculated Mannering, unable to stop himself.
Didcotte laughed.
‘Do I look such a bachelor? Yes, I’m married. Mary is at The Towers now. She has a very good taste in stones.’
‘Supposing you get to the point.’
‘I will, right now. If the Baron can get into The Towers and steal Mary’s stuff from the keep I’ll just hope for the best about those papers. If he cared to try and failed, I would expect him to return them. That suggests a possible way out,’ added Jonathan Didcotte. ‘As for the jewels, Mary could get some more. They’re insured, anyway,’ added the American, with his soft laugh. ‘Does it interest you?’
Mannering regarded the American in silence for twenty seconds. Didcotte saw the other’s surprise disappear, saw that devil-may-care gleam in Mannering’s eyes, saw his smile flash and knew the challenge had been accepted.
‘It might interest the Baron,’ said Mannering softly. ‘Always providing he’s got your papers, he stands to get the jewels and keep the papers, or to lose them both. Is that it?’
‘And risk being caught,’ added Didcotte. ‘I’d do my best to stop him, naturally. I want those papers very badly. Is it a deal?’
‘I think you can call it a deal. I’ll be disappointed in the Baron if he turns it down. Are there any conditions?’
‘Conditions?’
‘On matters of arms and things?’
‘I keep three menservants there, all ex-members of the New York police force,’ smiled Jonathan Didcotte. ‘And I have a notion that they’re armed.’
‘Only three?’
‘I shall be there, of course.’
‘You’re not thinking of asking for police protection?’
‘If the Baron can get past my three men and myself I deserve to lose,’ said Didcotte.
