Meet The Baron tbs-1

by John Creasey

  It clicked open at last.

  Mannering’s heart leaped. Not since he had robbed Septimus Lee had he known such exhilaration as he felt at that moment. He put his hand inside the safe quickly, and three black cases, unlocked, yielded necklaces. A wad of small denomination notes followed the jewels into his pocket. A pair of diamond ear-rings and pearl solitaires joined the notes. He could not have found a richer plucking, and his smile was wide.

  He was chuckling to himself as he slammed the door of the safe and turned round . . .

  And then he stared at the figure in the doorway, absolutely dumbfounded. He had heard no sound, had no idea that he was being watched, but the man was there !

  And he was holding a gun in his right hand.

  Mannering’s head seemed to whirl as he waited, as he watched the man advancing towards him. He had been wrong, he knew, and he cursed himself for his madness. He should have allowed himself time to look through the house, to make sure that there was no watchman. He should have made sure from the Ramons, if necessary, whether they kept a man; but it was too late now.

  The gunman stepped towards him.

  It meant — the end.

  CHAPTER TWENTY

  A PATCH OF BLOOD

  THAT MOMENT WAS VERY VIVID TO JOHN MANNERING.

  The approaching man, the gun, the slow, almost stealthy movement, as if the other were expecting an attack, and the thumping of his heart against his ribs, remained in his mind for years.

  He stood dead-still, staring.

  His passiveness seemed to make the other hesitate. He stopped, two yards away from Mannering, and his gun moved threateningly.

  “No funny tricks,” he muttered, half to himself. “And now take yer mask off, mister.”

  Mannering’s mind was racing as he tried to find a loophole; but he did not move. The other’s voice took on an ugly note.

  “If you don’t snap it off I’ll shoot,” he said.

  Mannering managed to laugh, little though he was feeling like it. The sound echoed unnaturally through the room, and it sent uncertainty into the other’s mind. The short, stumpy fingers tightened round the handle of the gun.

  “I’ve warned you . . .” he started.

  Mannering’s heart was going more steadily now. He was doing what he wanted, taking the only possible chance by making the other nervous. The man had the gun, and had reckoned that he could instil fear into Mannering with it. Mannering’s silence unnerved him. The gun wavered. It was one thing to threaten and another actually to pull the trigger.

  “Take your mask off!” The man’s voice rose again. “Now, listen to me, my man . . .”

  Mannering’s right hand moved towards his mask, a gesture of defeat. He fiddled with it for a moment, while the other watched him closely.

  Mannering was judging the distance all the time. Two yards separated them, and he could reach the man if he jumped. It would be touch-and-go whether he succeeded in preventing the gun from going off, but the chance had to be taken. He tensed the muscles of his legs, actually started to take the mask from his face.

  “All right,” he muttered dully. “You win. . . .”

  On the word “win” he jumped!

  That split second seemed an eternity. He heard the man shout, saw the gun move up, thudded his fist into that heavy face, felt the jolt, heard the gasp of pain from the other, and heard the roaring of the revolver!

  A sheet of flame flashed in front of his eyes, and he felt a furious burning in his shoulder. But the gun was clattering to the floor, the gunman was staggering back bewildered, and Mannering’s fist was thudding into his face again. Mannering was hitting regularly, almost automatically. One part of his mind was concentrated on the struggle; the other was working on the next problem — how to escape.

  That revolver-shot must have been heard outside. If the place was surrounded, if curious residents or a passing policeman heard it, the odds were heavily against him. In any case speed was the essential factor. He hadn’t a moment to lose.

  The man was fighting back doggedly all the time. His fist caught Mannering in the stomach. Mannering gasped, and staggered away, guarding himself as best he could. He recovered after a moment, and fought back a fierce rush from his enraged opponent; and then he saw his opportunity. The man had thrown caution to the winds, and for a moment his chin was bare . . .

  Mannering put every ounce of his strength into the blow. His fist caught the other’s chin, and the man reared upward, then sagged downward with a little moan. Mannering’s knuckles were torn; the pain in his shoulder was almost unbearable. But the man was unconscious, and the chance had been won.

  Mannering looked round quickly, and the pencil of light from his torch stabbed through the gloom. He made sure that he had dropped nothing during the scuffle, refastened his blue mask, and then made for the door.

  From outside the house came the thudding of footsteps. As he raced down the stairs noiselessly he saw the glare of a bull’s-eye lantern through the window-panel of the front door. Beyond, very vaguely, he could see the helmet of a policeman. The front-door knocker banged, reverberating through the hall. Mannering swore under his breath. The only outlet was the back way now, and he had no idea of the lay-out of the house. Once again he had not made sufficient preparations.

  He took a chance, racing along a passage by the stairs, flinging open a door that led through a room lined with books, through another short passage and into a kitchen. He rushed to the door of the room, and as he did so he could hear the banging at the front of the house and the echo of angry voices.

  The back-door was fast. Mannering drew the bolts, almost feverish with anxiety, and there was sweat on his forehead now. He pulled it open at last. . . .

  And then, for a moment, he stopped dead-still, and he told himself that the end had come.

  A policeman was climbing over the wall at the back of the house, and already the helmet of a second constable was poking above the brick-work. He had been out-manoeuvred; he had not even thought of this. God, what a fool he was!

  But his mind worked quickly. Faced with this new problem, he grew very cool and collected. He waited in the shadows of the kitchen, and slipped his hand into his pocket, round the butt of the gas-pistol he always carried. There was no time for half-measures.

  The policeman dropped to the ground, stumbled, picked himself up, and hurried towards the door. The second man followed him quickly. Mannering waited until the first was within two yards of him, and then he stepped out of the shadows.

  The policeman’s gasp of surprise came clearly, but as quick as a flash he lifted his truncheon. Mannering could see him clearly.

  “Better take it quiet,” he warned.

  Mannering’s answer was to level his gun. The man’s eyes widened; he dropped back a pace, and his obvious fear made Mannering chuckle to himself. There was a soft hiss of escaping gas, and the policeman uttered a single, strangled cry as the ether took effect, and he slumped down. But the advantage was a brief one, and the second man leaped forward. Mannering had no time to use the gas this time. He clenched his left fist and smashed it into the other’s face.

  The policeman reeled backward, his hands to his nose.

  Mannering waited for nothing more. He raced to the end of the garden, grunting as he saw the garden-seat which rested against the wall, jumped on it, and swung over the top. The drop to the other side was a nasty one, but he managed to keep his feet as he landed, although the jolt to his wounded shoulder was agonising.

  He looked both ways quickly.

  To the left he could see two men hurrying towards him, and his lips tightened. To the right there was no one in the small alleyway; that avenue of escape was open.

  Mannering swung round, with the men from the left swinging after him. The pain in his shoulder was worse now, and his knuckles were sore, but there was desperation in his mind, and one thought only — he must get away, he must.

  He almost sobbed with relief as he reached the end of the alle
yway and found himself in a wide thoroughfare. A taxi was crawling along it near him; he jumped forward, heedless of the man’s startled expression, knowing that he cut a strange figure, and that the men behind him were in sight, shouting at the tops of their voices. But their words were indistinguishable, and Mannering still had a chance.

  The taxi stopped.

  Mannering knew only one way of making sure that there was no hesitation, no loss of time.

  “For heaven’s sake,” he gasped, “get me to Scotland Yard!”

  The magic name of Police Headquarters proved effective. As Mannering swung into the back of the cab the driver let in his clutch, and the taxi swung along the road.

  Mannering, breathing hard, looked through the rear-window. He could just see the two men — ordinary passers-by, he assumed, racing towards the cab, but their effort was useless, and a smile curved his lips as he realised it.

  Then, as his heart steadied, he looked at his watch. The exhilaration of the chase and the escape dropped away, and a new and equally urgent problem presented itself.

  It was ten to twelve. In ten minutes the masks would be off at the Ramon Ball, and he had to be there in time, whatever happened.

  He straightened his hair, stuffed his mask into his pocket, dabbed his lacerated knuckles with his handkerchief, and then looked out of the window. The cab would be passing the New Arts Hall in a few moments; he saw that there was just one chance of getting there without alarming the driver.

  Mannering chuckled grimly.

  Then, forcing himself to use his right arm, despite the pain of the wound, he opened the off-side door of the cab and climbed on to the running-board. It was touch-and-go now. If the driver happened to look round he would raise an alarm, but they were in a side-street, and no one was passing. Mannering took his gas-pistol from his pocket and tapped the driver’s shoulder gently. The man swung round, gaping, and a cry came from his lips, but Mannering touched the trigger before it was repeated. The gas hissed out, a familiar, friendly sound to Mannering, and the driver slumped forward across the wheel. The taxi, out of control, swerved across the road.

  Mannering clung on to the cab with his left hand and reached for the brake with his right. He pulled it up with a jolt almost in the centre of the road, blessing his stars that no other car was in sight.

  He left it quickly. Its lights were on, and there was no danger of an accident, he knew. Breathing hard, he hurried through a side-street towards a side-entrance of the New Arts Hall. As he entered the building he held his breath, half-running as he went, but luck was with him. The only attendant who saw him was smoking a surreptitious cigarette, and, fearful of discovery, was more concerned with dousing it than with making inquiries.

  Mannering’s heart was in his mouth as he hurried towards the cloakroom. He dared not throw off his coat, for the blood from the wound in his shoulder would show up plainly against the harlequin costume he had on underneath, but by keeping his head bent he evaded recognition. With a sigh of relief he entered his private cubicle.

  Then he looked at his watch again and groaned. Three minutes to twelve. Three minutes!

  It was almost torture to don the Charles the Second costume, but it had to be done; he daren’t take a chance, and he must have an absolute alibi in case of inquiries.

  He swung his white silk scarf round his arm and shoulder, covering the wound, and managed to get the coat over it. Then he donned his wig, and a dab of rouge over his cheeks finished the job. He glanced at himself in the mirror for a moment, and the smile of his lips widened. A sense of jubilation returned; no one would dream of what had happened in the last forty minutes.

  The first stroke of twelve was echoing through the building from that gigantic ceiling-clock as Mannering entered the ballroom and merged in with the throng of revellers. As luck would have it he saw Lorna a few yards away, and made towards her.

  Jimmy Randall’s cheerful voice came to his ears before he reached the woman.

  “My dress is more accurate than yours,” said that worthy cheerfully. “Warm enough, J. M. ?”

  “My dress keeps me cool,” grinned Mannering.

  He reached Lorna’s side as the girl took off her mask. All around people were laughing, partners for the evening were taking stock of their companions. Carlos and Carlotta Ramon were standing on a dais beneath the clock, looking thoroughly pleased with themselves. Mannering wondered what Ramon would look like when he heard the news of the burglary, but that didn’t matter. The fact that he was sale was the thing.

  “So you’ve left that girl in red?” said Lorna laughingly.

  Mannering chuckled to himself. He needed no further proof of the wisdom of wearing the same costume as Randall and Colonel Belton. Lorna would be ready to swear, if necessary, that she had seen him in the hall all the evening, and he would want no better witness.

  “Of course,” he said lightly.

  And then the lights of that great hall seemed to dim, and there was a mist in front of Mannering’s eyes. He heard Lorna’s sharp exclamation of alarm, and felt her arm round him, firm and friendly.

  “John — John — what is it?”

  The room seemed to be swaying. Mannering held on to his companion for dear life, knowing that he would fall if he didn’t. He gritted his teeth. Every ounce of self-control that he had went into one great effort to regain his balance before others besides Lorna noticed that anything was wrong. He managed to smile, and found his voice.

  “I’m — all — right,” he muttered. “A bit hot. Let’s get to the side.”

  Lorna nodded, and gave him her arm. His shoulder was numb now, and he hardly realised the pain in it. But he reached a bar, just off the main hall, and took a whisky-and-soda gratefully. It burned through him with new life, and he forced a smile that did little to ease Lorna’s concern.

  “I can’t see what you look like,” she said. “That rouge hides everything. You’re sure you’re all right?”

  Mannering laughed now, feeling that he could carry on.

  “A hundred per cent,” he assured her.

  And then he saw the brilliant crimson sash that swung across Lorna’s shoulders. He saw the damp patch on it, and knew that it was blood — his blood. He stared, unable to keep his eyes away.

  Lorna saw the red patch on his costume at the same time.

  She went very pale, but said nothing as she bent towards him, so that the waiter could not see the shoulder and its ominous patch of blood. Mannering warmed towards her as she smiled.

  “We’ll get out as soon as we can,” she said. “Mother’s leaving just after twelve, and so are some of the others. It’ll look natural enough. Get back and change, my dear.”

  Mannering smiled at her in a gratitude he could not have expressed in words. She had asked no questions, revealed no excitement, but only anxiety; he knew that without her he must have been lost.

  But this was something he must explain.

  “My dear man,” said Lorna, a quarter of an hour later, “I’m coming back to your flat with you to patch you up.”

  “Not at this hour,” muttered Mannering. He was standing by a taxi, one of a hundred drawn up outside the New Arts Hall. The first streams of home-going revellers were crowding the pavements, mostly older folk, but sprinkled here and there with an occasional younger couple. Mannering, in evening-dress, looked no different from the others, but his arm was throbbing badly now, and he was anxious to get away.

  “You haven’t half the sense you get credit for,” said Lorna tersely. She beckoned a taxi and gave his Brook Street address. He smiled as he entered the cab, knowing that he could not dissuade her; he wasn’t sure whether he wanted to.

  Less than twenty minutes after he was standing in his bathroom stripped to the waist, and Lorna was examining the wound with a keen, almost professional eye. She was cool, and completely unflurried.

  “You’re lucky,” she said. “Or I think you are. It’s not touched the bone.”

  “It feels as though it�
�s broken a dozen,” said Mannering ruefully. “It’ll heal all right.”

  “You’ll need a doctor, said Lorna quickly.

  Mannering turned towards her. There was a smile on his lips and an expression which she could not understand as he answered.

  “That’s ruled right out,” he said.

  She stared at him for a moment uncertainly. He could see that she was burning to ask questions, but for the moment he could not bring himself to talk of the night’s adventure. He was racking his brains to find a genuine explanation — or at least one to sound genuine. It seemed impossible. She was very shrewd, he knew; and he judged that she would be able to tell whether he was lying. So tor the time being he said nothing.

  “So you don’t want to call a doctor,” she said, half to herself, and her eyes were dark, mysterious, probing. “Well — I can just see the bullet beneath the skin.”

  Mannering said nothing.

  “And it I try to get it out,” said Lorna, “it’s going to be painful for you and a nasty job for me.”

  Mannering hesitated.

  “I’ll manage it myself,” he said finally, “really . . .”

  Lorna smiled; the shadows went from her eyes as she rested her hand on his arm.

  “You’re a complete idiot,” she said. “Will you grit your teeth? I’ll try it.”

  Mannering nodded. For a moment his fingers closed round her arm in an answering gesture of trust. She spoke quietly, as though afraid of sentiment.

  “It’s lucky I’m not likely to faint at the sight of blood,” she said. “Turn towards the light, my dear . . .”

  The next three minutes seemed like days, but Mannering knew that they might have been a great deal worse. Lorna, tight-lipped, probed with a knife at the dark patch she believed to be the bullet. The bullet it was, and very close to the skin. She levered it out, as she would have done a splinter, and then put it on a shelf.

  “You’d better get rid of that.”

  Mannering nodded, and sat down wearily on the side of the bath. He felt weak and very tired. Still very practical, Lorna bandaged the wound, after bathing it, and he was amazed at the comfort now.