by John Creasey
‘My name is Bristow,’ said Bristow more heavily. ‘From Scotland Yard. I want to search the house.’
‘Search the house? Whatever for?’
‘You’ll learn,’ said Bristow.
‘I have no doubt,’ said Mr. Mayle, ‘that there is some explanation of this absurd visit. You say you are a policeman. May I see your credentials?’
Bristow did the obvious thing, the thing he would have done when calling at the house of any man who was wanted for interrogation. He showed his card. Mannering peered at it, apparently short-sightedly.
‘Ah, yes. Well—well, you have a warrant?’
‘No, but . . .’
‘My dear sir,’ said Mr. Mayle testily, ‘you may be a policeman, but these methods are deplorable – deplorable! You come here saying you wish to search the house. You give me no reason. You apparently labour under the delusion that I am someone else, and you have the impertinence to say you’ve no warrant. Supposing I refuse to allow you to enter?’
It was all skilfully done, and Bristow was on his guard now, prepared for a trick. The fact that two men were at the back of the house and one in the road outside gave him confidence.
‘I shall send for one,’ he replied stiffly. ‘If you’ve nothing to hide you’ll have nothing to worry about.’
Mannering glanced from one policeman to the other. He had given no hint that he was anything but what he looked, and had Bristow not been so sure he would have been worried. But the eyes did it, and the policeman’s lips tightened.
‘And . . .’ he began, but Mannering cut him short.
‘Well, I suppose if you’ve some good reason I’d better not stop you on a formality. What is it you want?’
‘You know what I’m after, and . . .’
‘For a senior police officer,’ said the portly man, in a higher pitched tone than ever, ‘your manners are deplorable. But if you must come in, you must.’
He stood aside. Bristow glanced behind him and saw the butterfly enthusiast standing in the drive gateway. He went past the portly man into the hall of The Grove.
Mannering peered at him again, and led the way along the passage.
There was a small room to the right, with no windows. He had had it in mind from the moment his mind had started working again, and now he saw Bristow falling into the trap. Of course there would be other men outside, but Bristow was the chief threat.
‘Come into my study,’ he said. ‘Then perhaps you will have the goodness to explain more.’
Bristow grunted. Mannering opened the door and stood aside for the others to pass. Bristow went in, and Tring followed.
And then Bristow heard Mannering’s deep voice, full of a mocking, ringing confidence.
‘Goodbye, Bill!’
He slammed the door on the two policemen and turned the key in the lock almost before they realised what was happening. Bristow flung himself at the stout oak, but failed to make any impression on it, while Mannering darted towards the kitchen. The din that Bristow was creating was muffled, and there was no chance of it being heard outside.
Mannering reached the kitchen door and ran through the room towards the garden. He saw the heads of two men disappearing behind a hedge. Ignoring them, he hurried out and walked quickly towards the back gate of The Grove.
On either side of the gate the two plain-clothes men were waiting to pounce, without asking themselves what had happened to the Superintendent. They knew this man was suspected of being the Baron, and they were sweating for the chance of bringing him down. He came on, apparently unaware of their presence, and when he reached the gate he hesitated.
The two Yard men sprang at him.
They uttered no word, and neither did Mannering. He simply stepped back a pace in well-feigned alarm, and the Yard men collided. They were off their balance enough to put them at a disadvantage, and as one staggered his chin jutted out, close to Mannering.
Mannering put all the force at his control into a single blow, and he lifted the man off his feet. The second detective saw what was happening and made a frantic effort to hit the Baron and draw his whistle at the same time. Mannering took a right swing on the side of the head, and planted a terrific straight left to the man’s stomach.
He heard the gasp, and saw him doubling up. He had two or three minutes to spare, and did not propose to lose them. He hurried along the side of the house to the main road, as he reached it he saw the butterfly catcher.
Mannering stopped in his tracks.
The detective hesitated, undecided whether to use his whistle or run after his man. Mannering half turned and saw that the Yard men had plumped for pursuit. Mannering hid behind the hedge while the others rushed up, and pushed out his leg at the right moment. As the butterfly catcher fell forward, taken right off his feet. Mannering clipped him behind the ear with a jab that made the man’s head reel.
‘Try that on the butterflies,’ murmured John Mannering.
Bristow and Tring were helpless inside, but the two men at the rear would be on their feet by now. Any moment he expected to hear the piercing alarm of a police whistle, but as the seconds passed it failed to come.
A taxi passed him, but he did not take it. Taxi-drivers were dubious helpers in broad daylight, and likely to pull up at the sound of a police whistle. A hundred yards along the road was a butcher’s van, and Mannering ran towards it.
No one in the road had seen the fighting, but several people saw him running and wondered why. He reached the van as the butcher left the drive of the house he had been serving.
Mannering stopped and pivoted round.
‘Sorry about this,’ he said, and pushed the man back. As the butcher reeled away, his apron flying, Mannering slid into the driving seat of the van, and let in the clutch quickly.
By now the road was in an uproar. A dozen people had seen the attack on the butcher and guessed there was serious trouble, but Mannering pressed on the accelerator, sending the van hurtling along the road towards Putney. Shouts were ringing in his ears, but there was no other vehicle in sight. For a butcher’s van the bus was travelling well, but a bend in the road hid the shouting, chasing crowd from the sight of the people ahead of the Baron, and the speeding brought no more than a dozen scowls.
Mannering took the van to the bottom of Putney Hill, pulled into the side and jumped out, leaving a pound note on the seat. A few people stared at him, but no one made a comment as he hurried across the road towards a Southern Region station, booked a ticket to Waterloo and ran down the stairs. Two minutes later a train came up, and Mannering dropped in the corner of a first-class carriage.
‘It was Mannering all right,’ said Bristow grimly. ‘I’m sorry.’
‘Can’t be helped,’ said the bull-like Deputy Commander philosophically. ‘The luck of the devil, that man’s got. We’ve closed up a gate on him. I wonder if he’d bought that place?’
It was not long before he learned from a Putney estate agent that Mr. Mayle had bought the house. Moreover, he had paid cash for it.
‘If you hear a word from him, let us know at once,’ Lynch ordered.
The estate agent received a letter, signed by Mr. Mayle, two days later. He was to allow Mrs. Jenson to stay at The Grove as housekeeper until the place was let. Thereafter Mrs. Jenson should receive two pounds a week, and the surplus rental should be sent monthly to the Police Orphanage. The estate agent watched Superintendent Lynch’s face when he read the letter, and his opinion of the police force rose sharply. For Lynch laughed, so did Bristow, when he heard.
‘I like the beggar,’ Lynch admitted, ‘and I sometimes wonder whether we’ll get him.’
Chapter Sixteen
THE BARON GOES NORTH
The next week was a busy one for the Baron.
He visited Flick Leverson in his Mayle disguise, believing the
police would not circulate its description, for they would take it for granted he would stop using it immediately. He was right. The old fence saw the Didcotte jewels and laughed.
‘The last time you came you had a poor lot,’ he said. ‘You’ve certainly made up for it. May I congratulate you on the Surrey burglary?’
‘Thanks,’ smiled the Baron, ‘but I’d rather have your congratulations on its value. What’s it worth?’
Leverson took the stones one by one and flicked them away deliberately. Three of the larger pieces he set aside. The heap in the centre of the table he indicated with a wave of his hand.
‘Twelve thousand for those. I shall have to take the others out of their settings before I can value them.’
‘Let the balance stand to my credit,’ said Mannering.
‘Of course, of course.’ The white-haired fence with the passion for collecting antiques stood up, and with his benevolent smile poured out a glass of dry sherry. Mannering drank it, commented on its flavour, chatted for five minutes and then left the Aldgate house. Leverson had paid two thousand pounds in cash, and promised to have the balance waiting by tomorrow.
Mannering changed at Aldgate tube station and left the last suit of Mr. Mayle’s clothes there, never to be collected. Mr. Mayle was dead.
Half an hour later Mannering reached Bloom Street and saw Tanker Tring lounging outside his building. Tanker regarded him dismally.
‘Busy?’ inquired the Baron.
‘Not so busy as I’m going to be,’ said Tring forbiddingly. ‘Mr. Bristow’s waiting for you.’
‘These pleasures will come all at once,’ murmured Mannering. ‘Tell me, Tanker, are you married?’
Tring moved one brown shoe over the other.
‘Don’t I look it?’
‘Then take her home a bunch of flowers,’ said Mannering, and he slipped a five-pound note, one of those collected from Leverson, into the policeman’s hand. Tring was still gaping when Mannering reached his flat and found Bristow waiting at the door. It was evening, and Bristow was looking tired; but his buttonhole was fresh.
‘Hallo, Bill,’ smiled Mannering. ‘Waiting for me?’
Bristow deigned no answer. Mannering chuckled, opened the door and waved the policeman in.
‘You go first this time,’ said Bristow.
‘This time?’ Not by word or deed would Mannering make an admission.
It was the fourth day after the Putney fiasco, and Bristow had not properly recovered from the reverse. The evidence of the hazel eyes would be useless in a court of law. There was no possible way of bringing Mannering to book through the Wimbledon incident, although Bristow was sure of the dual identity.
‘Well, Bill, what is it?’ Mannering asked.
‘I want to look round,’ said Bristow.
‘What – again? All right, help yourself.’
Bristow made another fruitless search of the flat. Even the Baron’s best Scotch failed to cheer him. Mannering guessed he had called to try to catch him off his guard, and he had found the Baron as alert as ever. Like Superintendent Lynch, Bristow was beginning to wonder whether they would ever catch the Baron.
The Baron was not letting the possibility worry him.
The Fauntley-Teevens affair seemed to have settled itself easily, and Didcotte could be put on his list of friends. Mannering felt that at last he could go north and see Lorna. She would have read of his exploits, and it would be good to talk to her about them.
He thought, perhaps more gloomily than usual, of the fact that marriage was impossible.
Her husband, Rennigan, was somewhere in the background. One day there would be a reckoning with Rennigan.
Mannering packed his clothes for a week north of the Tweed. Lorna and Lady Fauntley were staying near Glamis, and a week on the moors and the foothills would suit his mood. He chose to travel by night, booked a sleeper, sent his luggage on to the station and prepared for dinner at the Elan before starting the journey. He felt contented and resigned to a period of inaction. That old motive of cracksmanship for the sake of the gain, was gone.
‘Bill Bristow would love to hear that,’ Mannering told himself as he reached the Elan. ‘And I might tell him one day. I . . .’
‘Hallo, John,’ came a voice in his ear, and Mannering turned quickly. He found himself looking into the smiling eyes of Miss Philippa Grey.
Mannering continued to smile as he took her hand. She was looking delightful, and he said so, but seeing her made him realise that she knew he was the Baron.
So did Didcotte and Teevens.
Too many people knew the truth, and the sense of security into which he had lulled himself disappeared. He trusted Philippa Grey, but she would be no match for Bristow or Lynch should they ever learn the connection between them.
The war was on, whether the Baron was in action or not. He had to watch every action, every word; he dared not relax.
‘You’re looking thoughtful,’ said Philippa.
‘I was thinking of our last meeting,’ Mannering smiled. ‘I hope you’ve forgotten it.’
‘You’ll have to hope on,’ laughed the girl. ‘But it’s a close secret – don’t worry. Alice Purnall tried for a week to make me talk, but even she’s beginning to forget. She was very, very grateful.’
‘I’m glad I could help. Are you alone?’
‘No, I’m with my uncle. Jimmy Rombell!’
Her eyes were twinkling.
‘We owe him a lot for that night,’ said Mannering. ‘If you want to hoodwink a country policeman mention the local peer of the realm.’
‘Why don’t you join us?’ asked Philippa. ‘Then you could thank him in person.’
‘I might try,’ chuckled the Baron, ‘so I won’t take the chance. I—now what’s caught your eye?’
For Philippa Grey looked past him towards the door of the foyer, and he could see the laughter in her eyes.
‘One of your victims, isn’t it?’
Jonathan Didcotte entered the foyer with a plump little woman, Mary, his wife, and his son. Guy’s eyes lit up, and he crossed to Mannering immediately. Mannering could imagine what Philippa Grey was thinking, for she knew only what the papers had told of the affair at The Towers.
Mannering introduced Philippa and Guy, and reflected that they made a nice-looking pair. Jonathan Didcotte came towards them.
‘Hallo, Mannering. Would you care to join us?’
‘He’s just refused to join me,’ Philippa said, ‘so I don’t see how he dare.’
‘You can help to make a party,’ suggested Guy, and his expression told of an admiration for Philippa Grey. Guy Didcotte had a straightforward simplicity.
Lord Rombell, stout, middle-aged and possessed of a passion for sherry and cricket, bustled up. There were introductions all round, and they chatted while Henri arranged a table.
Mannering left the party at ten o’clock, telling himself that it had only needed Fauntley and Teevens to complete the party.
He had seen Guy and Philippa dance cheek to cheek, with Philippa now dreamy, now vivacious. He did not notice the lantern-jawed little man who was waiting outside the hotel and who, after Mannering had directed his cabby to St. Pancras, gave the same order to a second man.
The two cabs threaded their way across London. Mannering was feeling more content now, although he was keenly aware of the need for caution. At Glamis, however, there would be no need to worry. He had hardly realised how much he wanted a rest.
The lantern-jawed man saw him talking to a porter ten minutes before the Scottish express left. He hurried to a telephone booth and was soon talking to Augustus Teevens.
‘Morley here,’ he said. ‘He’s going to Scotland.’
‘Follow him,’ ordered Teevens. ‘Watch him all the time, Morley – all the time,
understand?’
‘I’ll do all that all right, sir.’
‘Mind you do,’ said Teevens. ‘I’m going to ruin that man one day.’
Mannering always preferred to leave the train at Perth and complete the journey by road. He had wired Lorna to expect him, but he was not surprised to find her waiting at Perth station at half-past nine on the following morning.
He had slept well on the train, a trick he had developed after many night journeys, and was looking what Lorna called his best.
She hurried towards him, eagerly. She was dressed in brown tweeds, and her eyes were glowing, her dark hair clustered beneath a wide-brimmed hat set a little aslant. There were people who said that she was not beautiful; Mannering knew they were wrong. There were times when she seemed sullen, moody and mutinous; those were the times when she thought of Rennigan, and brooded. Only Mannering knew why. He knew also that her eyes were the loveliest in the world whenever she forgot the past. In real repose the chiselled squareness of her chin, her straight nose and perfect lips, and her brows, unplucked and a little heavy, made rare beauty.
Yet he rarely spoke of it; there was a gift of understanding between them, and words weren’t needed.
‘Good journey, darling?’ she asked.
‘Not bad at all. What time did you get here?’
‘Five minutes ago – but I thought you’d never come. You’ve been busy?’
‘So you read the papers?’
‘I’m almost afraid to,’ she admitted.
They were past the station barrier now, and Lorna’s car, a 1½ litre Jaguar, was standing outside. Porters trundled the luggage to the rear, and they were soon off on the cross-country run.
He knew she told the truth when she claimed to be almost afraid to look at the papers. She dreaded the possibility of opening the pages one morning and finding his name splashed in the headlines as the Baron. When she was in London, and with him much of the time, it was not so harassing. She knew what he was doing, and often she could help. But nearly five hundred miles had separated them, and three times the headlines of the national Press had carried stories of the Baron’s exploits.
