by John Creasey
‘I’ll need it,’ said the Baron.
He made straight for the English Museum, and had half an hour to spare before it was closed. In the Jewel House quite a crowd was gathered near the case where the Irawa Ruby was usually on show. The case could be opened without trouble, and he could replace the stone easily enough without making it apparent that the case had been forcibly opened. But . . .
Damn it, he could not put it back in its case!
Just in time, Mannering saw one of the blind spots that came occasionally, mistakes that he so often nearly made. Obviously the case would have been examined a dozen times since the robbery. The only thing was to put the gem back in the safe at the Museum.
Mannering had been playing with the idea of getting the ruby back and trying to create the impression that it had never been stolen. He thought that way would be best for Fauntley, but if he put the ruby back furtively and Fauntley denied that it had never left the Museum (he could pretend that Moore had been given a replica) it would weaken Fauntley’s case immensely. The Evening Star, with Teevens behind it, would make great play of the fact that Fauntley had magically produced the jewel stolen by the Baron. The consequences would be fatal. The Baron had stolen the ruby, the Baron would put it back; and in the morning the Baron would write to the dailies and claim that he had not known the Irawa gem had been with Moore’s collection. The very sensation would take the limelight off Fauntley, who would have time and opportunity to handle the affair with the Evening Star and consolidate his reputation.
The Baron felt happier: there was nothing hazy about his plan, it was clear-cut, definite, a matter for action only. He spent the half-hour at the Museum examining the doors and the windows, and by the time the attendants were clearing the big halls he had his plan prepared.
It was a warm day, and the embargo against washing was irritating; so was the fact that he could not go any place where he was known. He dined at a small restaurant in Soho. Midnight was the best time for working, and he was fidgety for the next few hours.
He was in strange places, keeping out of sight, making sure his disguise was not forced to suffer severe scrutiny. He spent two hours in a picture-house, already beginning to feel the excitement which always came at the outset of a job.
If he could talk with Lorna or Didcotte, even Philippa Grey, he would feel better. If he had even been able to spend the evening at the Elan he would not have endured this nerve-racking suspense. Ten minutes before midnight he walked through the streets of Kensington towards the vast building of the English Museum.
The night was dark, and the side-gate he chose to operate on was in a deserted spot. He could hear an occasional footfall, but none came near. He worked quickly. He made more noise than he wanted, but the gate was open at last. He slipped his pick-lock into his pocket and, with a fresh kit of tools prepared that day, walked across the hard courtyard towards the nearest window. The squat building towered above him and seemed to stretch endlessly on either side, but the only sound as he reached the window was the distant hum of traffic and the slight padding of his own feet on the ground.
Chapter Twenty-one
RESTITUTION
The Baron had avoided the main roadside as much as he could when he had reached the Museum, and he was well away from it now.
The Jewel House had no windows, but there was a window to a passage near by and he had seen it during the afternoon. The heavy iron bars and the thick plate glass, frosted and reinforced, would not be easy to get through.
He worked on the bars quickly, using an acid preparation to loosen the concrete. He had two bars out in five minutes, and there was space to climb through. The window was a different proposition. The thick glass would not be easily broken, and the wire reinforcement was almost unbreakable. The Baron had relied on one thing – the putty at the edges.
He ran his chisel down the putty and it came away in small hard pieces with little noise. Still the silence was about him, and he worked in the darkness, his blue mask and gloves covering his face and hands, his coat-collar turned up so that he merged into the background of dark grey stone.
When the window-frame was bare of putty, the Baron used his chisel to slice away the wood, for the glass was let well into the window-frame. The seconds ticked into minutes and all the time the only sound was the cutting noise of the chisel and the scraping of wood.
The Baron began to work faster, caring less for the noise he might create, fearful of the patrol guards coming round.
Once the sound of a footfall came near him: he straightened up, ready for anything, on the other side of the railings a policeman walked stolidly, glancing right and left, his face a pale blur in the gloom.
Mannering started again, chipping the wood off three sides of the frame. He had it finished at last, but he knew it had taken too much precious time. The sheet of glass itself was heavy and difficult to handle, eight feet high and five feet across. He could only let it downward gently, fearful all the time of losing his hold and sending it crashing to the courtyard.
But it was on the ground at last, and he was able to rest it against the outer wall.
He climbed over the windowsill quickly, not stopping to collect his tools; if anyone passed and looked in, the broken window would be enough to raise the alarm. He found himself in the wide, dark hall, and even the padding of his rubber heels seemed to echo.
The air was heavy and oppressive, and the building seemed filled with a murmuring of sound that had no explanation. Right and left he could see cases standing upright, and once he caught a glimpse of the white bones of a skeleton.
He halted in front of it for a moment, knowing that it was mad to feel jumpy; but he could not stop himself. The thing was inside its glass case, but it gave Mannering a feeling of nervousness.
He went forward slowly; the sense of direction that had been such a boon a hundred times before seemed to desert him, and he blundered into a stuffed animal standing by the wall. It thudded against the wall, and the echo went round and round, cavernous in that great mausoleum of a place.
The walls and ceiling seemed to close down on Mannering as he waited tensely, half afraid that he would hear the fast-approaching footsteps of the guards and yet worried more by the strange something, the atmosphere that he could not properly understand.
He was out of the range of the window now, and he could use his torch without the risk of being seen from outside. He switched it on, and the first beams shone over the bones of a prehistoric brute that did as much in death to make a man jump as it could have done in life.
Mannering cast the beams of the torch around slowly. The place was eerie enough to upset anyone’s nerve. The beam of Mannering’s torch played over the glass-enclosed faces of mummies and their swathed bandages, over skeletons, human and animal, over strange assortments of bones hanging from the otherwise bare walls.
He had marked a stuffed fully-grown ape standing by an alcove opposite the Jewel House door, and he found it at last, rubbing his hand across the hairy face when he had expected to find the bare wall. He withdrew his fingers quickly, stepped straight across to the opposite wall and found the door.
He was chary of using the torch, for he was not sure how often the men came round on their patrols, while he guessed they would move silently. But he flashed it on the lock of the door, which he had studied as carefully as possible that afternoon.
It was solid and up to date, a rarity in the English Museum, but it was not an insuperable obstacle. He would have to use gelignite again, but that did not worry him.
He needed three minutes from the moment the door was open to the moment he started on the journey back, and there could be Bedlam. No sound came through the darkness, but that strange muttering – rats, had he but known it, behind the thick walls.
He drew the gelignite from its pocket in his tool-kit now. One small stick would be enou
gh. He stuffed it into the keyhole, hanging a thirty second fuse. He was on tiptoe, his eyes gleaming brightly, his lips parted, and beneath his mask his teeth shining.
Still no sound.
He struck a match, and the hiss of the flare seemed like thunder, echoing about the high passage. The fuse spluttered quickly, glowing very red and sending its white streaks of flames. Mannering backed away quickly, hiding his face. The boom of the explosion came with a devastating roar, and Mannering was half-blinded and deafened. For at the vital moment he had uncovered his eyes. Blinking the tears from his eyes, he hurried forward. There was still a rumbling about the walls and passages. He reached the door, which was swinging open, and rushed into the room, switching on the light as he went. There was no need for secrecy now.
The case where the Irawa Ruby had rested for so many weeks was in the centre of the big room. He reached it in a few long strides and wrenched the lock open. He had the ruby out in a flash; to its setting was tied a small card with six block-lettered words on it.
The Baron thrust it into its place and swung round.
Seconds counted, seconds were precious. He reached the door.
And then he stopped dead still.
Three men were approaching, two from the direction of the window by which he had entered, one from the other. All had thick clubs, and one had a gun. The single man had the gun. He raised it as the Baron rushed at him. The first bullet hummed past his head, but the second failed to come, for the Baron reached the man and sent the gun flying out of his hand.
He was moving very fast, with the two guards in full cry after him. Nothing mattered now but escape, escape! There were whistles shrilling and alarms clanging stridently; voices were raised in anger and bewilderment, seeming to come from every corner, every wall.
The Baron was running towards the centre of the big hall. He was afraid of losing himself in the maze of passages. He saw the stairs; down one flight two men were running, but the other was empty.
He turned right, jumping up the stairs, caring nothing, thinking nothing, but of the one thing – escape.
Escape, escape!
At the first landing he had outpaced his pursuers, and was twenty yards ahead. He darted towards the left and the windows.
He still carried his jemmy in his pocket. It was cumbersome, but he needed it. Ahead of him was a large window, bare of bars, for it was fitted high in the wall. He reached it, smashing the jemmy downwards, and as the glass crashed he heard the half-frenzied shouts of the men behind him.
The Baron swung round, the smashed window at his back, four racing attendants after him now. A club hurtled through the air, and flew over his shoulder. A second struck his foot.
His mask was still up, but his eyes were blazing and there was an unholy light in them – the light of battle, the most desperate battle of the Baron’s career. Luck could not help him now, nor could strategy. Speed and force were his only weapons.
To his right was a chair. The guards were at the head of the stairs as he picked the chair up and hurled it at them.
They scattered, two to the left, and two down the stairs. Those on the stairs caught the flying chair and went downward, the bumping and clattering on the stairs adding to the din. But the Baron was still facing two resolute armed men.
He saw a gun flash as he went forward to the attack. Attack, attack, always attack!
The report of the first shot echoed high into the ceiling of the great hall; the second sent a bullet stubbing near the Baron’s toes; but the third hit the ceiling for the Baron sent the man backward. The second guard closed with him. They struggled like madmen, and there was a light of insanity in the guard’s eyes. The Baron was fighting with the ruthlessness of a machine, but timing his punches and saving his strength.
An uppercut sent his opponent reeling backward and crashing into the rails. But half-a-dozen other men were rushing up the main stairs towards the landing.
Mannering reached the window and grabbed the jemmy from the floor. A bullet smacked close to him. The blue mask gave him away as the Baron – the Baron, for whom the country was seeking and whom the nation despised.
He smashed two jagged pieces of glass from the bottom of the window, and climbed through.
Outside was the brooding darkness, not even a star to light the skies. He had no idea how high he was, and he saw nothing about him. Only darkness. He stood poised on the windowsill of thick granite. Behind him the men were racing and shouting, and already he could hear the shouts in the streets outside, could hear the thudding of footsteps from the road.
There was a dim glow now from the light behind him. He stood poised, wondering whether he dare jump and risk a broken limb. If only he could see!
His hands were stretched out as far as they could go along the wall, and suddenly he jabbed his fingers against something that protruded. The Baron’s muscles went taut. A drain-pipe!
He leaned his weight against it; he had to take risks, and he hardly felt fear. The pipe stood his weight. He gripped it with one hand, then found purchase with the second.
Slowly, desperately, he dragged his foot from the sill and forced it against the wall, suddenly he slipped. The weight on his arms was excruciating, but he held on to the pipe and hung straight down. Every sense was acute. He could hear voices below, yet not directly beneath him. He shinned down, barking his knees on the wall painfully.
The men were at the windows now and beams of light were stabbing out from torches, odd and eerie through the darkness. They were straight down at first, and the Baron could see a circle of light a few yards beneath him.
His toes touched the ground, his knees bent. He staggered out and straightened up, and as he did so a burly figure materialised out of the darkness.
‘Now then!’ There was a gruff note of triumph in the policeman’s voice, and a hand dropped heavily on the Baron’s shoulder. But the policeman made a mistake, and thought his man was scared. His stomach made a target impossible to miss, and every ounce of strength went into the Baron’s blow.
It struck the man like a steam-hammer, and the anguished gasp reached the skies. The hand fell from the Baron’s shoulder, but now he could see two or three vague figures in front of him and on all sides.
He drew a deep breath and plunged forward.
Lights were springing up from all the windows, and the darkness was broken by a pale white gleam. The Baron was heading like a man possessed for a dark corner away from the main gates. The courtyard echoed to the thud of footsteps, and the sound of his own pounding feet was hardly noticeable. He reached the railings. He was on the main roadside, and the street lamps gave light enough now. Three or four people were hurrying towards the gates, not looking at the railings. The Baron waited until the last had passed, then took his chance.
He hauled himself up, every muscle in his body protesting, but he reached the top, then stood for a moment on the rails.
If he tried to climb down his clothes would catch; he had to jump. It was an eight-foot drop, and he was practically exhausted. He landed steadily, then plunged to the left. The shouts behind him were growing more distant. Cabs and cars were passing him. On and on, the sweat in his eyes, his arms working mechanically, every moment like the last.
He pushed a comb through his hair, tidied himself as best he could while he lurked in the shadows and then walked quickly along the street towards the High Street. A cab was passing, and he beckoned it.
‘Aldgate Pump,’ he said, and climbed in.
At nine o’clock next morning Sir David Ffoulkes, an Assistant Commissioner, Superintendent William Bristow and Detective Sergeant Tanker Tring were gathered round the Commissioner’s desk. On a virgin blotting pad was the Irawa Ruby, with the brief message still tied to it. They had tested the stone and the card for fingerprints, but had found none, although the message was there for all to see. It
read: ‘With the compliments of the Baron.’
Chapter Twenty-two
NO ALIBI
There’s just this,’ Bristow said doggedly. ‘Mannering wasn’t in his flat last night. I had two men watching it all the time, and I’m sure of that. He disappeared at Mansion House yesterday afternoon, and he didn’t return to Bloom Street.’
‘You’ve thought of the Elan?’ asked Ffoulkes.
‘His key wasn’t taken from the desk, I had two men watching there. Mannering wasn’t caught, perhaps, but Mannering has no alibi.’
‘A lot of people in that position,’ murmured Ffoulkes.
Bristow touched his nicotine-stained moustache.
‘I know, sir, but there’s ample ground for suspecting Mannering. I suggest that he’s detained for questioning.’
‘You have no proof,’ objected Ffoulkes. ‘I know it’s maddening, Bristow, but we can’t arrest Mannering on suspicion simply in the hope that he will slip up. You might be wrong.’
‘I’m as sure Mannering’s the Baron as I’m sure my name’s Bristow,’ said Bristow stubbornly.
‘Yes, Bristow, and I’m inclined to agree with you. We can’t authorise a warrant, and you know it. But I’ll overlook any minor breaches of regulations. You can put a call out for Mannering, too. He’s wanted to give evidence of identity, shall we say?’
It was a partial victory.
‘At once, sir, thank you,’ Bristow said, ‘is that all?’
Ffoulkes leaned back in his chair with his eyes half closed. He was tapping the Irawa Ruby and speaking very slowly.
‘No. Leave nothing undone to catch the Baron, whether he is Mannering or not. This’—he tapped the message—’is going to swing the Press and public round in his favour, and you’ve some three hours to work.’
‘Can’t we keep it from the Press?’ asked Bristow.
