Meet The Baron tbs-1

by John Creasey

  Grayson gave a helpless little laugh.

  “There’s no reason why I should make it awkward if you’ve really got a search-warrant,” he said; “but it’s an infernal impudence, Tring.”

  “I wouldn’t pull your leg,” said Tanker.

  He took the document from his pocket, and pushed it in front of Grayson’s nose. The latter glanced down it, shrugged, and waved his hands expressively.

  “All right,” he said. “Go ahead. But let me tell you, you’ll hear more of this.”

  Tanker clapped his hands. The door opened quickly, and two of the men whom Mannering had seen in the yard entered. The sergeant told them to get to it, and they started quickly.

  Mannering sat in his chair, bewildered, more than a little afraid. He knew that if the slightest thing happened to suggest that he was John Mannering the game would be up, and he dreaded discovery every moment.

  All the same he watched the search, fascinated. The policemen inspected every corner, every possible hiding-place. They searched files that were thick with dust, old boxes, the drawers of the desk, and they even prised up two loose floor-boards. Their reward was nothing.

  Tanker’s good-humour prevailed; probably he had expected to draw a blank.

  “That leaves just the safe,” he said. “Got the key, Grayson ?”

  “It’s not locked,” said Grayson. “I used it just before you came in.”

  “Now I wonder why?” asked the policeman thoughtfully.

  He slipped off the edge of the desk and went to the safe. The door opened easily, and the bundles of pound-notes — three of them — amounting to twelve hundred pounds, were revealed.

  The policeman took them out and tossed them into the air as he walked back to the desk. He sat on it again. . . .

  Mannering’s heart seemed to turn over. Tanker was sitting within an inch of the button which would reveal the slot-opening in the desk — and the pearls.

  The Baron sat watching, on tenterhooks every minute. Each time Tanker moved a fraction of an inch he was afraid that the slot would be opened by the pressure. A little ring of sweat formed on his forehead and at the back of his neck. He was more afraid than he had ever been in his life.

  But he contrived to keep his face straight and his hands still. He looked at the bundles of notes, and his expression suggested such covetousness that Tanker, who looked at him for a moment, laughed.

  “Never want what isn’t yours,” he advised jocularly. Then he looked at Grayson, and his expression hardened. “That’s a lot of money to have all at once,” he said.

  Grayson’s acting was superb. Not by a flicker of an eye did he reveal the anxiety that he must be feeling about the slot in the desk. There was a smile on his lips as he answered: “I could draw you a cheque for ten times that amount,” he said, “and still have a good balance. That’s wage-money, Tring.”

  “You pay big wages,” said Tring doubtfully.

  Grayson’s temper sparked at that.

  “That’s my business,” he snapped. “Those notes are for wages, I tell you. I brought them from the bank less than twenty minutes ago. You can go and inquire if you want to.”

  Tring shook his head, perfectly unperturbed by the outburst.

  “No need,” he said. “I saw you go in the bank, and I saw you come out. Why not save trouble, Grayson, and tell me why you wanted this money?”

  For a moment it looked as if Grayson would lose his temper completely, but he made a big effort, and controlled it.

  “I’ve told you once what it’s for,” he said. “I pay my wages every month . . .”

  “Dock-labourers don’t get paid every month,” said Tring.

  “Dock-labourers don’t run my ships,” snapped Grayson.

  The policeman looked crestfallen, and Mannering realised that the other had overlooked that possibility.

  “H’m,” he muttered, “you’ve got ships in, have you?”

  “Three,” said Grayson, and his expression said: “And if you don’t believe me go and find out for yourself.”

  Tring nodded, sighed, and tossed the bundles of notes to one of his assistants.

  Tut “cm back,” he said.

  As he threw them he moved a little, and this time he actually covered the button. Mannering could hardly keep his eyes off the danger-spot, and when Tanker shitted an inch away relief went through him. But it was not long-lived, and in the next moment his fears returned tenfold.

  That’s that,” snapped Tring, and there was a glint in his eyes. “Now I’m going to search you, Grayson — and your pal.”

  Mannering’s eyes narrowed with the shock, but he kept cool. He shifted his chair back, half-rising from it more to hide his own anxiety than anything else.

  “Cut that!” he grunted. “You ain’t got no warrant to search me, mister, and I ain’t being searched, see?”

  Tring eyed him levelly.

  “I’ve a warrant to search this office,” he said, quietly enough, “and you’re in it. You’re a big fellow — but don’t try any tricks, or you’ll spend the night in the lock-up, cooling your heels.”

  Mannering glowered, keeping his eyes as narrow as he could, hoping hard that Tring wouldn’t look at them too closely. It was a tense moment. Mannering’s spine was cold, for there was something very threatening about the sergeant.

  “Well?” snapped Tring.

  “Better let ‘em,” advised Grayson quickly.

  Mannering shrugged his shoulders and grunted. For the first time in his life he was searched. He was hard put to it to keep steady, and the seconds dragged like minutes, but there was one thing that cheered him. He knew that he was carrying nothing that might connect him with Mannering, and the only thing in his pockets of interest to Tring was the rubber container in which he had carried the pearls.

  There was an ironic twist on his lips as Tring held the bag up and peered into it. An hour before he would have seen one of the things he was desperately anxious to find, and the career of the Baron would have come to an abrupt end. Now . . .

  “What’s this?” Tring asked, looking at the big man’s blackened teeth. “A tooth-brush container?”

  Mannering’s lips curled savagely.

  “Clever, ain’t yer?” he muttered.

  Tring shrugged, and dropped the bag on to the table, where half a dozen oddments were heaped. Mannering’s pockets had been completely emptied, and he had never been more thankful in his life that he had taken another man’s advice. Flick Leverson had told him never to carry Brown’s stuff in his pockets when he was pretending to be Smith. The philosophical fence’s experience was very full.

  Tring grunted suddenly, easing the tension.

  “Let him have it back,” he said. “Now you, Grayson.”

  The reward was the same after Grayson had submitted — nothing. Tring shrugged his shoulders, but now his dis-appointment was obvious.

  “Have you quite finished ?” asked Grayson softly.

  Tring nodded.

  “Well,” said the pink-and-white man, “let me advise you, Tring, to behave a little differently in the future. If you ever come into this office and forget to call me “mister”, if you come here pretending that you know I’m crooked, treating me and my visitors as if we were old lags, I’ll have you run out of the Force. There’s things you can do and things you can’t. You’ve overstepped the mark. Don’t do it again.”

  There was a complete silence in the room for a moment, while Sergeant Tring’s face turned a deep red.

  “All right,” he said at last, and beckoned to his men. “But I’ll bear that little speech in mind, Grayson.”

  Grayson watched the three detectives go out of the room, and on Mannering’s face there was a grin of real triumph. But even as the door closed Grayson lifted his hand warningly. Mannering was puzzled, but knew the reason a moment later.

  “That’s the first time I’ve ever been insulted like that,” boomed Grayson, “and I’m damned if I’m going to take it. Who is Tring, anyhow,
the impertinent upstart? I’ll see that he wishes he hadn’t. . .”

  “I’d like to get my ‘ands rarnd ‘is throat,” muttered Mannering, playing up quickly, “the mucky . . .”

  He broke off as the door opened suddenly. Sergeant Tring entered the office, looking very apologetic, but grinning a little.

  “I left my note-book,” he said, picking it up from the desk. “Thanks. Good-bye.”

  The door closed on him again, and Grayson swore. Mannering went to the window and looked out. Not until the detectives were walking across the yard below did either of them speak.

  “That was close,” Mannering muttered.

  Grayson nodded, but he was smiling.

  “They think they’re smart, those fellows, but they don’t know everything.” He tapped the slot in the desk, which was still concealed, and his smile widened. “He was sitting right on it, and didn’t think of running the desk over for a button. Policemen . . .”

  The fence stopped, with a shrug.

  “Anyway, we got away with it. But you’d better not take the cash out with you, in case they’re watching. I’ll post it. Where shall I send it to?”

  Mannering hesitated, half-afraid that there was a catch; but he had to admit the wisdom of the manoeuvre, and he nodded.

  “Mayle,” he said. “Strand G.P.O.”

  Grayson nodded, and rubbed his plump hands together, well satisfied with life.

  CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

  PROFIT AND LOSS

  MANNERING KNEW, LATER IN THE DAY, THAT HE HAD MADE a mistake. He had told Grayson to send the money to the Strand post office, and he saw that it would have been wiser to have had it sent to Aldgate, where he could have collected it while in his Mayle disguise without trouble. As it was, he was faced with the need of sending a messenger or braving the journey from Aldgate, where Harry Pearce gave him his disguise, during the daytime, for there was the possibility that Grayson’s curiosity would encourage the fence to watch the post office. Mayle, not Mannering, must call there.

  He did not fancy sending a messenger to collect twelve hundred pounds. The only thing was to do it himself.

  “There’s one thing,” he told himself, as he regarded his face in the mirror and smiled the villainous smile which the cleverly made false teeth created — teeth which fitted over his real ones like a thin rubber cover, “no one who knows Mannering will want to know me.”

  Nevertheless he was on tenterhooks the next morning

  when he journeyed from Aldgate by bus and walked along the Strand towards the post office. The chance of meeting acquaintances was considerable. Toby Plender might be there, Jimmy Randall frequently visited a fine-art shop near the post office, and a dozen of his friends had business or pleasure in the neighbourhood. It was another test, another thing to make him realise his own limitations.

  He was sorely tempted to keep looking about him, to keep a watch for anyone whom he knew, but he resisted the temptation. He slouched along, looking at his feet, relieved to see that he was by no means die worst-clad man in the Strand. In fact, he told himself, the standard was very low. He grew more confident, but before he entered the office he had a shock.

  A big man was walking a few yards in front of him, a man who seemed vaguely familiar. Mannering tried to place him from the back-view, and was irritated because he could not. And then the big man swung round suddenly, and Mannering was face-to-face with him.

  For a moment a pair of keen eyes swept him up and down.

  Mannering’s heart seemed to stop as he recognised his man. It was Superintendent Lynch.

  That temptation to speak, to acknowledge the other, almost gave him away. He fought it back. The Superintendent showed no signs of recognition, but was muttering to himself and going through his pockets. He had obviously forgotten some papers, and his sudden turn had been caused by the recollection of them.

  Mannering had to force himself to walk past the big man. He did so, and then stopped at the first opportunity to look into a shop-window, and, glancing back, saw the Superintendent making his way majestically towards the Law Courts.

  A smile that was only partly humour twisted Mannering’s lips as he entered the post-office building. He was beginning to appreciate the perils of his position more. It had seemed a good prospect at first, and the difficulties had appeared to be small. But actually they were immense. It wasn’t safe for him to walk about the streets, and every time he connected with Grayson or one of the other crooks and fences he was forced to know in order to dispose of his stolen jewels, the danger would be acute.

  Yet it was worth it. Mannering’s eyes sparkled as he reached the counter and asked for a letter or parcel addressed to “Mayle”.

  “Initial?” asked the clerk.

  Mannering hesitated, cursing himself. Initial! Why in heaven’s name had he forgotten to quote an initial to Grayson ?

  He took a chance, making his mind up quickly.

  “J,” he said, “but I don’t think the other man knew it.”

  The clerk wasn’t interested, it seemed. He looked into the “M” pigeon-hole, pulled out the package that Mannering’s eager eyes had already seen, and slipped it across the counter. Then he turned away, without a word, before Mannering had taken the packet.

  “Surly devil,” thought Mannering.

  He was interested chiefly in the parcel, however. He knew that there was a possibility that Grayson had double-crossed him, and until he had actually seen the notes he would not be satisfied that he had received full payment. His fingers trembled a little as he undid the string, and he breathed freely again when he found that Grayson was straight.

  But by the time Mannering had returned to Aldgate, removed his disguise, taken leave of Harry Pearce, and then made the minor disguise which changed him from Mr Mayle to John Mannering it was approaching two o’clock. He would have to hurry if he were to reach the banks that afternoon.

  He was finding the service-flat in Brook Street very useful. At one time he had viewed it as an unnecessary expense, but he was glad now that he had never tried to economise. The place was central, its service enabled him to dispense with a servant, and he could act there with less risk of interference than if he were in an hotel all the time.

  He had actually given up his rooms at the Elan, but the proceeds from the Overndon pearls would enable him to take them again. It was necessary still to show a good front. He had to look rich. Whatever economies he practised must not be at the cost of appearances, unless the situation was desperate.

  But he was living at the rate of five thousand a year, and he would have either to cut his expenses or increase his income considerably; so much was certain. He had done well with the smaller stuff, but the robberies that he was officially helping to investigate would have to become less frequent. He needed something bigger. But there was always the difficulty of selling.

  Grayson seemed reliable enough, but Mannering doubted whether the fence would be prepared to buy anything at a higher figure than fifteen hundred pounds, while he had no desire to visit the warehouse too often. The old problem of finding an outlet for his jewels was increasingly difficult. He still had the Rosas, worth ten thousand pounds if he could find the right market.

  Mannering smiled as he remembered the little duel with Septimus Lee, alias Levy Schmidt, and not for the first time wondered whether the clever Jew had forgotten him, or whether he was still suspect. He was sure that Lee was keeping a very careful watch for the Rosa pearls. If they were sold through any normal channel — normal, that was, from the point of view of the fence — Lee would learn of it.

  Meanwhile Mannering was sitting pretty with the Rosas in his possession, but with a bank-balance which, until this twelve hundred pounds had come along, had been perilously low; but now he had enough to satisfy him for a while.

  He separated the notes into three packets of four hundred each. Then he took his paying-in books and made the necessary entries. This finished, he glanced at his watch, to find that it was twenty
minutes to three. He would have to taxi from one bank to the other if he was to get to them before they closed, and he had no desire to keep the cash in the flat all night.

  Then he had a shock: without the slightest warning the door of the flat opened.

  Mannering saw it, and went pale. He moved his hands towards the bundles of notes, but he knew that it was useless to try to conceal them; he would be seen. For a split second that seemed like an eternity he waited.

  Then he saw who it was, and he laughed. It was the only thing to do.

  Lorna Fauntley stood in the doorway, smiling at him, but looking puzzled.

  “Greeted with loud hurrahs — or am I ?” she mocked, as she advanced towards him.

  Mannering stood up quickly, and took her hand; his eyes were dancing.

  “Is that the way you enter a bachelor’s apartment?” he retorted.

  “I tried the door, it opened, so I came in,” said Lorna, dropping into a chair. “If you want to keep your guilty secrets from prying eyes you should lock your rooms, John.”

  “It’s not worth the risk of missing you,” Mannering riposted.

  He had not seen Lorna so frequently of late. The advent of the Wagnalls and Gerry Long and the reopening of his friendship with Lady Mary and Colonel George Belton had occupied him, and Lorna had spent a great deal of time painting. Too much time, he told himself as he looked at her.

  He regarded her for several minutes, thoughtfully and without speaking. She returned his gaze, but the smile on her lips was not wholly sincere. She looked tired. Her eyes lacked the lustre they had possessed; that turbulent spirit that had at first intrigued and later enamoured him was subdued. He hardly knew why, but he told himself that she was worried.

  “I’m looking a wreck,” said Lorna suddenly.

  The disconcerting habit she had of saying the obvious and saying it bluntly was still in her, and Mannering laughed.

  “You look as though art has been too hard a master,” he said. “You’re working too much, my dear. You mustn’t.”

  Lorna laughed and shook her head; there was a hardness in the sound which made Mannering wary.