The Baron Returns

by John Creasey

  ‘You think it is Teevens?’

  ‘Of course. And it will make the Evening Star howl. Let them howl. Your father can sue them when this is over.’

  ‘Would it be wise?’ questioned Lorna. ‘There’ll be a strong feeling about it. The Irawa Ruby’s as important now as the Koh-i-noor Diamond, and the papers are getting hysterical.’

  ‘I don’t promise to tell you what I’m going to do,’ said Mannering. ‘But don’t worry.’

  ‘John . . . Lorna! John . . . John!’

  Mannering swung towards the door of the room as Lady Fauntley’s voice came, high-pitched with anxiety. She was hurrying from the library, and her face was very pale.

  ‘Oh, my dears, thank goodness you’re here. You’ll do something, John, I’m sure – tell Hugo not to be such a fool. I always said it wasn’t safe to leave him alone.’

  ‘What’s happened?’ asked Lorna anxiously.

  Lady Fauntley’s eyes were on Mannering, pleading.

  ‘All that dreadful story in the papers and the country up in arms against poor Hugo – what possessed him to lend Moore the ruby I don’t know. But he’s so generous really, although perhaps you wouldn’t think it. And now he’s gone to France – flew over this afternoon, John – and now what do you think the public will say?’

  What the evening papers thought was obvious when the next editions came along. The Evening Star, still prompted by Teevens – Mannering was right there, for Teevens had a friend on the board of directors – came out with a heavy headline:

  Lord Fauntley’s Mystery Journey to Paris

  There was no statement, but there was a strong innuendo. Most readers glancing through the headlines would associate two ideas. The ruby had gone without trace, and Lord Fauntley, who had allowed it to leave the Museum, had left England.

  Worse followed. The Evening Star reported his lordship’s heavy business losses, and gave rumours of his attempts to sell his own collection; the added weight of the suggestions and rumours was enough to have blackmailed Fauntley for as long as the ruby was missing.

  Fauntley’s solicitors spent several hours with Lady Fauntley, a worried but self-possessed little woman strong in defence of her husband. Writs were to be applied for against the Evening Star and other papers, but unless the ruby was found the writs would be useless to save Fauntley’s reputation. Deputy Commissioner Lynch changed his mind about going to Scotland and made preparations for a trip to France, while the Surêté Nationale was watching the peer, who so far was unaware of the storm about his head. Fauntley had gone to Paris simply on business.

  Meanwhile Mannering was making preparations for the biggest effort of his life so far, one that could undo the damage that had been done.

  He refused to tell Lorna, for she would want to help him, and it would be disastrous for the Fauntleys if she was caught. There was more than a chance of being caught, but Mannering had to risk it, for Lorna, for Fauntley, for himself.

  If the Irawa Ruby was found in its case at the English Museum the whole campaign would collapse.

  Chapter Twenty

  MR. TEEVENS ANTICIPATES

  Augustus Teevens and Matthew Lobjoit sat opposite each other in the stockbroker’s flat. They were feeling reasonably pleased with themselves, for although they had lost a great deal of money, each still had a fortune. Both had looked for a way to stop Mannering, something to prevent him from using their own methods against them. In short, they were afraid of blackmail.

  Teevens had come to the conclusion that Mannering was the Baron. He had put the private enquiry agent, Morley – Lantern-Jaw – on to Mannering to try to catch him out, but Morley had been sleeping when the great opportunity had come.

  Yet Teevens had seen his chance.

  He had known of the arrangement between Moore and Hugo Fauntley. He had suspected that Mannering’s reason for going north was to steal Moore’s collection, and had seen the possibility of linking Fauntley with the disappearance of the ruby.

  It was a fact that both Bristow and Teevens had been convinced that the Baron would get the stone.

  Everything had worked out as Teevens had desired. The Evening Star was a powerful weapon, and the other papers lifted what they had not been able to find out for themselves. Fauntley was suspect to the man in the street. The Baron would be as worried as if his own name and reputation were in danger. So Gus Teevens sat snugly in a well-upholstered armchair, with his fat hands folded across his bulging stomach.

  ‘They’re sorry they worried us, Matthew. Mannering will be more careful after this.’

  ‘If he has an opportunity,’ said Lobjoit slyly.

  ‘You’re thinking that we might be able to find a case against him. If Morley had been on the ball, we would have had Mannering by now.’

  ‘Supposing Fauntley proves that he hasn’t got the jewel?’

  ‘He hasn’t got it, you fool. He’ll probably issue a writ, and we may have to pay out a few thousands. But he will never convince the public, and that is what we want. Public opinion, my dear Matthew, will do Fauntley more damage than anything else. Once that’s done we will start a campaign against Mannering – a whispering campaign.’

  ‘Mannering will know where it comes from.’

  ‘I shall absolutely deny all knowledge,’ boomed Teevens. ‘So will you. Mannering will be in a cleft stick. He alarmed me, I’ll admit that, but I’ve recovered, and Mannering is going to learn that.’

  ‘You’ll have to be careful,’ urged Lobjoit. He was a pessimistic man by nature.

  ‘I’m always careful,’ Teevens assured him. ‘Mannering will soon be on the run, very soon indeed. A spot more whisky? To celebrate.’

  The Chief Commissioner, Sir David Ffoulkes, listened to Superintendent Bristow’s story in silence. When it was finished he leaned back – he was a large man, who had been in the same Cambridge boat as John Mannering – and eyed the detective narrowly.

  ‘And how long have you suspected Mannering, Bristow?’

  ‘About eight months, sir.’

  ‘You should have told me before,’ said Ffoulkes. ‘No, don’t apologise – I know why you didn’t. Lynch knew about it, of course.’ Bristow had not said so, but the Chief Commissioner knew his men. ‘Well, I’m not going to say that I believe you. I think you’ve probably made a mistake.’

  ‘Mr. Mannering and Lord Fauntley are closely associated,’ Bristow said. ‘Things don’t look too good for Fauntley.’

  Ffoulkes cocked his head on one side.

  ‘I can believe almost anything of Mannering,’ he admitted. ‘He always was a daredevil, and he had an off-beat sense of values even in the old days. But there is a big mistake about Fauntley, and the Evening Star will pay heavy sums in damages. All right, Bristow. Keep at it. Don’t take any notice of the newspapers – I don’t need to advise you of that, though – and watch Mannering carefully.’

  The last words came out almost casually, but they cheered Bill Bristow a great deal. The Commissioner was obviously half-convinced that Mannering and the Baron were identical.

  Mr. Jonathan Didcotte entered the drawing-room of The Towers and smiled at Philippa Grey, who, at Guy’s earnest plea, had come to spend a few days as a house guest. Jonathan Didcotte was pleased by his son’s interest. There was a great deal to admire in Philippa Grey.

  Philippa was reading the Courier’s front page, with the usual story about the Baron, that contemptible thief who could take the nation’s property. Her young face was set, and she was flushed when she threw the paper down.

  ‘I don’t believe it!’ she said aloud. Didcotte thought there was something more than a romantic liking for the Baron in her attitude. Didcotte, knowing Mannering was the Baron, and the connection between Mannering and Philippa, put two and two together.

  His drawling voice broke the silence. Philippa swung round in alarm.


  ‘So you don’t believe Mannering took the ruby, do you, Philippa?’

  Her eyes widened into pools of alarm.

  ‘Mannering?

  ‘Shhh! There are servants.’

  ‘But—but you know . . .’

  ‘I’ve known for some time – even before he visited me. But I didn’t realise you knew. How did you find out?’

  Philippa explained quickly, and the story of Alice Purnall’s necklace was repeated yet again. The American’s grey eyes were smiling as she finished.

  ‘And you don’t believe that the same man would take the Irawa Ruby, do you?’

  ‘Do you?’

  ‘Well, I don’t know. I don’t think so, but probably he didn’t know it was there. He’d be wise enough, would Mannering, not to do anything which would bring everyone against him, although I won’t answer for his scruples. The thing is, what to do?’

  ‘We can’t do anything,’ Philippa said, and Didcotte thought she was very close to tears.

  ‘I shall tell Mannering he can rely on us if he wants help. Oh, I know he robbed me of a lot of jewels, but he did me a service I shan’t forget for a long time. Now stop worrying and go and find Guy. Don’t tell him Mannering is the Baron, though. Guy can still feel that punch on the chin!’

  Hugo Fauntley paced the room of his Paris hotel, muttering to himself. He had just received a copy of the London Evening Star, and if Fauntley had ever raged, he did so then.

  He knew that Teevens had a friend who was a director of the paper. He also knew that he had nothing to do with the disappearance of the Irawa Ruby. On the other hand, this business trip would look more than suspicious.

  Only one man could help him, thought Fauntley, and that was Mannering.

  Lord Fauntley suddenly stopped thinking, and stared at a water-colour, so dazed that he hardly knew whether he was on his head or his heels.

  Mannering had helped him before – after the Baron had broken into Lobjoit’s office. Mannering had been near Moore’s place – and the Baron had paid a visit. Mannering – the Baron? It just wasn’t possible – it couldn’t be possible, and yet . . .

  Thoughts began to flood through the peer’s mind, of the thefts the Baron had made before when Mannering had been near at hand. The Baron was Mannering!

  ‘The—unmitigated—scoundrel!’ cried Lord Fauntley aloud. ‘The . . .’

  He stopped, for he remembered all that he owed Mannering and the Baron, if Mannering was the Baron. The man might be slick-fingered, but he was not a rogue by ordinary standards.

  The telephone rang.

  Fauntley stepped to the instrument hastily, afraid to hear that reporters were waiting downstairs. It was surprising they had not started worrying him yet. There was no need to fear, however, for Mannering’s deep voice came over the wires from London.

  ‘John!’

  ‘Hugo, don’t talk, just listen. Both the police and the Press will be after you – don’t say a word. Just maintain a dignified silence. Will you?’

  ‘I—but, John . . .’

  ‘There mustn’t be any buts,’ said Mannering sharply. ‘Teevens has put you on a spot, and you’ll have a job to get off it. You can do it as well as any man.’

  ‘Listen, John. If Teevens has done this, how can we kill the rumour? Damn it,’ exclaimed Lord Fauntley, with a sudden wave of indignation; ‘it’s practically accusing me—we!—of stealing the Irawa Ruby. It’s disgraceful, but circumstances have helped to make me look guilty. It is all very well to say no, but . . .’

  ‘I wasn’t saying no,’ interrupted Mannering. ‘If you’ll do what I advise – say nothing about the affair, except to call it preposterous – I’ll see you through. Will you?’

  ‘Yes, of course. But . . .’

  ‘I’ll ring you as soon as I can,’ said Mannering, and the line went dead.

  Fauntley stared at the telephone, took a silk handkerchief from his pocket and wiped a brow that was wet and red. He was still doing it when the door of his suite opened and Lucy Fauntley rushed in. She was dressed for outdoors and her hat was a little awry, and she literally threw herself in her husband’s arms.

  ‘Lucy!’

  ‘Hugo! It’s all so hateful, and I didn’t know whether you would want to come back, although I thought you would, but here I am in case something’s gone wrong. Do I look too much of a wreck—I came by air—oh, Hugo, you’re positively ill!’

  ‘What on earth made you come here?’ demanded Fauntley dazedly.

  ‘I simply couldn’t keep away, Hugo.’

  Fauntley looked more pleased with life than he had for a long time past.

  ‘Of course not, my dear. Of course not. I—I can’t say how much it means to me. I—oh, hallo?’

  There was a tap on the door. It opened and an attendant walked in with a card on a tray. Fauntley took the card, read it and then stared at his wife. The inscription ran: Deputy Commander A. Lynch New Scotland Yard

  Colonel Arnold Moore finished reading the last account of the robbery and scowled at a blank wall. He had drunk a great deal more whisky than was good for him. The shock of the theft had been enough, the loss of his own jewels considerable, but the disappearance of the Irawa Ruby was the final blow. He had applied to the police for protection as a formality, never dreaming that his impregnable strong-room would be easily broken open.

  Like Fauntley, Moore had his pride. In this case the settlement from an insurance would hardly have satisfied it. But he had taken it for granted that the ruby had been insured: it had, but only while at the Museum. Moore should have insured the stone from the moment it left the case at the Museum to the moment when it had been returned. It was his responsibility, some hundred thousand pounds’ worth, and he was at his wit’s end. He hadn’t the money; to get it he must sell some of his precious collection or use the insurance money on the other stolen jewels. A dead loss, in any case. And there were these rumours about Fauntley.

  He had approached Fauntley a few weeks before and the peer had acquiesced with surprisingly little argument. At the time Moore had not been suspicious, but now he was wondering whether it had been a trick.

  Arnold Moore could see no way in which he could avoid paying for the stone. He doubted whether anything would be found to prove the case against Fauntley. He did not realise how much his fortune depended on Mannering.

  After he had telephoned Fauntley, Mannering prepared to make a surreptitious visit to the English Museum. The idea had grown now until he looked on it as inevitable. He would get the Irawa Ruby back to the Museum, whatever the cost.

  There was something in the irony of the suggestion that appealed to the gambler in him. He had broken into country houses and town houses and found it easy, and invariably he had brought something out with him. Now he would break into the English Museum, and leave something there.

  It was a joke he could share only with Lorna, and that would make it perfect. It gave him a new zest for life; it made him hum to himself as he left his flat and hurried down the stairs. It made him smile widely at the cabby who pulled up a moment later.

  He saw the plain-clothes man who followed him in a police car, but left the cab at the Mansion House, as useful for his purpose as Piccadilly. He slipped into the tube station and up a subway, with the man still on his heels. Three minutes were enough to leave the detective standing at one subway while Mannering walked briskly along Cannon Street, and jumped on a bus for Aldgate.

  Half an hour after leaving his flat he was with Flick Leverson. Leverson could only shake hands and say: ‘You’ve surpassed yourself, my friend.’

  ‘You mean the Irawa Ruby?’

  ‘Of course.’

  ‘I found it by accident,’ confessed the Baron. ‘I’m going to put it back, Flick.’

  Leverson looked at him steadily, then drew a deep
breath and asked: ‘Can I help?’

  Just that, and no more; and the Baron knew that even Leverson had wished the Irawa Ruby still at the Museum.

  ‘You certainly can. I’ve come without much in the way of disguise’—Mannering had slipped his rubber cheek-pads in his mouth and had darkened the skin beneath his eyes—’and I need something more effective. To last from now until tomorrow morning. Can you suggest anyone to do it?’

  ‘I’ve the very man for you,’ said Leverson; ‘an old stage make-up artist. Would you like it done here?’

  ‘If it’s possible.’

  ‘I will use the telephone,’ said Leverson, ‘then we’ll have tea while we are waiting for my friend to come. You needn’t ask his name.’

  Just forty minutes afterwards the Baron was sitting opposite a mirror in Flick Leverson’s bedroom while a small, tubby man was wrapping a towel about his shoulders. The man worked quickly, using paint sparingly, trimming Mannering’s hair, dyeing it a little grey at the temples. He was a quiet worker and uttered few words.

  Soon, Mannering was staring into the face of a stranger.

  ‘It’s perfect,’ he congratulated.

  The tubby little make-up man bowed delightedly.

  ‘It is good, yes. It will last for twenty-four hours, although you must not wash your face.’

  ‘You certainly won’t see me washing the paint off in the middle of the performance,’ Mannering assured him, and the gratified man bowed himself out of the room.

  Meanwhile Leverson had been busy.

  Mannering found a ready-made suit of dark grey, a pair of toney brown shoes and grey socks waiting for him. They fitted fairly well, although when dressed Mannering looked nothing like the well-groomed man about town who had entered the room. It put the finishing touch to the disguise.

  Leverson shook hands as his caller went to the door.

  ‘I’ll keep your clothes here, my friend, and the best possible luck.’