A Sword For the Baron

by John Creasey

  If the police had telephoned the Yard, why hadn’t the Yard taken some action?Was he building this affair up in his mind too much? There had been a danger of that from the beginning; reading into the case more than there really was. Yet he knew that he had half-expected to find a man from the Yard or from the local Division waiting for him.

  Had Sara Gentian named him?

  Ethel came in, with the tea in beautiful china of Worcester fruit pattern. She had patted down her fluffy yellow hair and put on a white apron instead of her kitchen smock, and she bounced up and down like a rubber doll.

  As she put the tea on a reproduction Jacobean table, of knee height, the front doorbell rang.

  “Oh, there’s someone at the door,” she said. “Shall I see who it is, sir?”

  “Please,” said Mannering.

  There was no reason to be so much on edge, he reminded himself – and yet he was. He did not pour out the tea, and did not move, just stared towards the door, waiting to hear the voice of whoever had called. The door opened; he heard it swinging. The girl said: “Good afternoon, sir.”

  “Good afternoon,” a man said in a brisk, clear-cut voice. “Is Mr Mannering in?”

  “I’ll see, sir,” said Ethel. “What name shall I say?”

  “Superintendent Bristow, of New Scotland Yard,” the caller announced.

  8

  FENCING

  “Hallo, Bill,” Mannering said, much more brightly than he felt. “It’s a long time since I last saw you. Come and sit down. Like a cup of tea?”

  Bristow echoed: “Tea?”

  “I missed mine earlier,” Mannering said. “Rather have a whisky and soda?”

  He stood by the corner of an old court cupboard, where he kept the drinks. The little room was furnished entirely with dark oak of Tudor and William and Mary periods. Against the wall was an intricately carved old oak settle which looked as if it had been untouched for centuries, but in fact it was a cunningly made safe, almost as secure as the strongroom at Quinns.

  Mannering’s hand was on the key of the cupboard.

  If Bristow accepted a drink, it would mean that he had come as much on a social call as on a business one. Refusal could have an ominous significance. He stood there, a man of more than medium height, trim of figure, with good, even features which somehow lacked the animation that would make him handsome. He had light grey eyes which often seemed to hold a blank look but could change on the instant to challenge. His moustache was iron grey, except in the middle where it was stained yellow with nicotine of countless cigarettes. His light grey suit was immaculate; he might have come straight from Savile Row, not from New Scotland Yard. He was appraising Mannering, as if looking for some sign of—what?

  “A spot of whisky would be very welcome,” he replied at last.

  “You can’t beat it.” Mannering waved to the coffee table. “Help yourself to a cigarette.”

  Bristow moved across, picked up a cigarette from a silver box, stared at it, then struck a match. Mannering poured whisky, a double with only a splash of soda; he knew Bristow’s tastes well. In fact he had known Bristow for over twenty years, and most of the time Bristow had been regarded as one of his friends – perhaps his only real friend – at the Yard.

  Mannering poured himself a weaker drink.

  “Cheers,” said Bristow, formally.

  “Cheers.” Mannering sipped. “What’s it all about, Bill? Why the eagle eye and the speculative look?” When Bristow didn’t answer, Mannering went on easily: “I don’t believe you came just to say ‘hallo’.”

  “No, I didn’t,” agreed Bristow. He took another sip. “You know damned well I didn’t.”

  “I guessed,” Mannering said drily.

  “You know perfectly well why I’ve come.”

  Mannering’s heart began to thump. “I don’t, you know.”

  “There isn’t any point in denying it.”

  “What am I supposed to be denying?”

  Bristow’s lips curved in a faint little smile; he had a trick of rolling the cigarette from one side of his mouth to the other, without speaking – and he did it now, watching Mannering closely all the time.

  “All right, I’ll tell you,” he said. “You went to the flat of Miss Sara Gentian this afternoon, broke in, and made yourself at home. You forced several locks, including that of a writing cabinet in the living room. When Divisional police arrived, you escaped through a window of the room. The policemen might have been brighter, but you’re still pretty agile in spite of your years.” Bristow’s eyes were hard, and much of his good humour seemed to be forced. “What did you take away, John?”

  The ‘John’ suggested a friendly, not a militant mood, although Bristow was first policeman and afterwards friend. Even as a policeman, however, he could use nothing Mannering told him as evidence. He could build on it, though; Mannering had to be very careful.

  “I don’t think your chaps got the name right,” he said. “I didn’t break into Miss Gentian’s flat.”

  “Of course it was you.”

  “Try again, Bill.”

  “If you insist on denying it, I’ll have to use the proof I’ve got.”

  “You can’t have any proof.”

  But could he have?

  “I see,” said Bristow, slowly. He sipped his drink and then put the cigarette back between his lips. “It’s no use, John. She named you.”

  “Who named me?”

  “Sara Gentian says that you called out, and gave her your name.”

  “Oh, come,” protested Mannering. “Proof?”

  “She says she recognised your voice.”

  “I don’t think I would put her into the witness box,” Mannering said drily. “She came to see me this afternoon, and wanted me to do something I wouldn’t. She left wishing that she could make me smart. This must be her revenge. Her evidence could be discredited within two minutes in the box, Bill. Try again.”

  “John – were you there? It could be of extreme importance.” When Mannering didn’t answer, Bristow went on with great deliberation. “I am not here as a kind of agent provocateur. I don’t really care how you got into the flat. If you say that the door was open when you arrived, that will be all right with me. The Yard will take your word for it. But I need to know whether you were at Sara Gentian’s flat this afternoon. Because someone was – in fact two people were. I’ve reason to believe that one of them attacked Miss Gentian, although—”

  Mannering almost exclaimed in astonishment: “Doesn’t she admit she was attacked?”

  He checked himself.

  “Although Miss Gentian herself refuses to make a statement, my impression – and the impression of the officers who saw her – is that she is very frightened, badly enough to lie about a dangerous situation. If you were at the flat this afternoon it must have been for a good reason, and you might have some idea who was there before you.”

  “Bill,” said Mannering after a considered pause, “I can’t help what you think or Sara Gentian believes. Assume that I wasn’t there, will you? What makes you think she was attacked?”

  “There was a smell of gas about the kitchen. A bath towel was impregnated with gas – in the way towels which have been used as a kind of hood, in suicide attempts, are always impregnated. What’s more, she collapsed soon after our men arrived, and they sent for a doctor. He diagnosed that she was suffering from the secondary effects of carbon monoxide poisoning. She’s been taken to a nursing home near Cadogan Square and we’ve a man at her side to question her when she comes round again.”

  Mannering said startled: “You mean she’s as bad as that?”

  “She had a second collapse,” Bristow told him. “That’s not unusual in this kind of poisoning case. The indications are that someone brought her round from the coma induced by the gas
, but that she didn’t rest long enough. Coming round and hearing sounds downstairs or finding you there might have been enough to bring on the further shock and the secondary collapse.”

  “Finding someone there,” Mannering corrected.

  Bristow let that pass.

  “How is she?” demanded Mannering.

  “Unless there are complications which the doctor doesn’t anticipate she should be all right in a couple of days,” Bristow assured him. “Those two days could be of vital importance. Either she attempted suicide, or someone tried to kill her. You brought her round, didn’t you?”

  “No.”

  “I don’t believe you,” Bristow said flatly. “Listen, John. This is a case of extreme importance. It could lead you into very deep waters. Don’t get yourself into difficulties by behaving like a quixotic fool. Sara Gentian may have come and told you her story in confidence, but you’ve got to tell us what she said. If she came to you because she was frightened of being attacked, then—”

  “She told me no such thing.”

  Bristow’s eyes seemed to become very bright, almost shimmering, as they stared at each other. Suddenly he moved, stubbed out the cigarette, finished his whisky and put the glass down sharply.

  “I don’t think you’d lie about that, anyhow. What did Lord Gentian want?”

  It was done so smoothly, and so neatly: nothing had suggested that Bristow knew that Lord Gentian had been to see Mannering, but he had known – and he slipped the question in to make Mannering realise that he knew. Mannering picked up the Yard man’s glass, took it to the court cupboard to refill it, came back, and said: “Why don’t we sit down?” Bristow chose the settle, probably realising that he was sitting on thousands of pounds in the safe beneath it. “Gentian didn’t say that it was confidential, but you’ll keep it to yourself, won’t you?”

  “Provided it isn’t the concealment of a crime.”

  “I haven’t enough information to say,” Mannering said. For the third time he told exactly what Lord Gentian had wanted, and this time he described the sword in great detail. He made the description as vivid as he could, so as to impress Bristow. The Yard man was the police expert on jewels, and his love for them was at least equal to a collector’s.

  Bristow sat and sipped and listened without interruption; it was some seconds after Mannering had finished before he spoke.

  “Gentian didn’t report the theft of the first sword to the police. That I do know.”

  “I wouldn’t like to be sure that it was stolen in the legal sense,” Mannering said. “It looks like a kind of family feud.”

  “That could be part of the explanation, but only a part,” said Bristow. “You know as well as I that you’re in a better position to find out whether the other Mogul Sword was ever offered for sale. I’ve a hazy kind of recollection that there was a sensational story about it before I first went to the Yard. That was nearly forty years ago, remember. I’ll check.”

  Larraby had had a hazy recollection, too.

  “I’ll ask around,” Mannering promised.

  “I hope you will,” said Bristow. “John, I’ve told you already that you could run into serious trouble in this affair. You’re not dealing only with collectors of jewels and fine art, you know – that isn’t Gentian’s world. Gentian’s a curious character. He’s spent most of his life out of the country. Whenever he’s at home he behaves like a recluse, and yet he can exert a lot of pressure – he has a lot of financial power, too. He’s very wealthy indeed, and controls some of the most important land in the heart of London – land to which he has title, or land held in trusts of which he is a trustee. Did he say anything about this?”

  “Nothing at all.”

  “It wouldn’t surprise me to find out that he’s really offering you a sprat when he wants the mackerel,” Bristow remarked. He gave the impression that he was exerting himself to be friendly, yet might turn hostile at any moment. “Possibly he hopes to whet your appetite with the Sword, and switch you over to big business later. As I’ve told you, I’ve reason to think that his niece is in grave danger, and it wouldn’t surprise me to find out that Gentian is, too. He was involved in an ugly and mysterious accident, when rocks fell very close to him from a cliff, six months ago. A favourite dog of his, a retriever, died of poisoning three months ago. A lot of mysterious things have been happening with the Gentians. I want you to find out all you can, and let us know. This is an official request,” Bristow added. “I think it’s important.”

  “Well, well,” said Mannering. He felt almost like laughing because this was so unexpected. “Let me think about it, Bill. It presents problems, but—”

  “None you can’t overcome,” Bristow interrupted. “I wouldn’t make the request if we didn’t think it of extreme importance. How long will you need to make up your mind?”

  “I’ll call you in the morning.”

  “That will do,” said Bristow. He put out a hand and gripped Mannering’s arm. “Don’t forget that we believe the girl was attacked. Both she and her uncle may be in real danger. And don’t forget that if you refuse this request, you may make it impossible for us to save either of them. The best thing you could do—” he broke off.

  “I know,” Mannering said for him. “The best thing would be to make one or both of them come and tell you the story, instead of keeping it to themselves.”

  “That’s right.”

  “Give me until the morning,” repeated Mannering. “By then I—”

  The telephone bell rang.

  The instrument was nearer Bristow than Mannering, on a small table by the side of the settle. Mannering moved across and took it, still relieved by Bristow’s request, but sure that there was a great deal that Bristow had not told him. “John Mannering,” he announced, and heard a man speak, with a slightly Cockney accent.

  “Is Superintendent Bristow there?”

  “Yes. Hold on.” Mannering handed the telephone to Bristow, who held his whisky and soda in one hand, kept his cigarette between his lips, and pressed the receiver to his ear.

  “Bristow,” he said through the corner of his mouth. He frowned, and glanced at Mannering. “Go on,” he said sharply. He began to frown more deeply and rolled the cigarette between his lips. “Yes,” he went on. “Yes, all right.” He replaced the receiver with a quick, angry movement, squashed out this second cigarette and put his drink down. He stood up, moved towards the door, looked squarely at Mannering and, after a long, tense pause, spoke almost venomously. “You bloody fool. Where is it?”

  Mannering had had sufficient warning not to be taken by surprise by this change of tone.

  “Where is what?” he inquired. “And why—”

  “Don’t give me that,” Bristow rasped. “There was a miniature Mogul Sword at Miss Gentian’s flat. She’s just reported that it’s missing. You were there. She saw you bending over the desk where she kept it. Where is it?”

  “Bill,” Mannering said mildly, “I didn’t go there and I didn’t take any miniature sword. I didn’t know that one existed.”

  Bristow had gone pale, and looked furiously angry as if he felt that he had been badly let down. Was he trying to throw a scare into Mannering? Had the telephone call been laid on beforehand, or had it really come as a surprise? Mannering believed that it had come out of the blue, that Bristow was suffering from a kind of shock.

  Bristow said: “You didn’t have time to go to Quinns from Hillbery Mews, you probably came straight here. I can get a search warrant on the strength of what I know. Want me to?” After a pause, he went on, still aggressively: “Or are you going to give me that miniature sword?”

  9

  BLUFF?

  Mannering thought: Between the time that I left the mews and the time the police searched the writing desk, that miniature disappeared.

  Bristow would not l
ie; and Bristow believed that the miniature had been stolen.

  But except for Sara Gentian, the house had been empty.

  Mannering thought uneasily: there couldn’t have been anyone else hiding there, could there?

  Bristow was glowering. This was the man of earlier days, with whom Mannering had had many a clash, the Bristow who knew what desperate chances Mannering was prepared to take when the mood and the situation demanded it.

  “Now give me that sword,” Bristow ordered.

  Mannering was wondering whether he had been seen; whether the girl would identify his appearance as well as the sound of his voice; whether by any chance one of the detectives had seen and recognised him but deliberately let him get away. A low ranking officer might well have thought it better to leave a man of Mannering’s eminence to Bristow.

  “Mannering, if you don’t give me—”

  “Cut it out,” said Mannering roughly. “I haven’t any miniature sword. Neither Sara nor her uncle told me that one existed. If you want to search me or look round here, go ahead.”

  “That can only mean it isn’t here, so you got rid of it on the way.”

  “It means I’ve never had it. Why don’t you stop trying to throw a scare into me, and tell me what you’ve come about?”

  “I’ve told you.”

  “I don’t believe half of it,” Mannering said. “Another drink?”

  Bristow said slowly: “No. No, I don’t think so. John, listen to me.” He became very earnest, and moved close to Mannering. “I don’t know whether you’ve been involved in this case for some time, or whether you’ve just come in. I do know that you will be in trouble unless you do what we want. If you try to play one Gentian off against another, if you start lone wolfing for the sake of Sara Gentian’s pretty eyes – you’ll be asking for trouble. Don’t forget it.”