A Sword For the Baron

by John Creasey

  The miniature sword had been at the flat when he had left; whatever the police believed, Levinson could not have taken it. It had been taken by Sara Gentian herself or by someone else hiding in her flat. He did not really believe that there was any likelihood that someone had been hiding there, so—

  The girl must have reported it stolen, must be a party to the attempt to frame Levinson.

  12

  BRISTOW SCOFFS

  Mannering lifted the telephone and dialled Bristow’s home number; Bristow’s wife told him that Bristow was still at the Yard. Mannering called the Yard, to be told that Bristow was across at Cannon Row police station, close by; doubtless he was talking to David. As Mannering’s finger poked into the telephone dial again, there was a sound outside. Ethel went hurrying across the hall as a key scraped in the lock.

  “Good evening, ma’am, I thought I heard you,” Ethel said exuberantly. There was scarcely a pause. “Mr Mannering’s in the study, I believe.”

  Lorna said something. Mannering went to the door and opened it, to see her standing just inside the hall in that beautifully modelled suit, her eyes bright and her cheeks flushed; lovely. She saw him.

  “Hallo, darling!”

  “Hallo, my sweet.”

  Ethel took Lorna’s umbrella and backed away, watching them as she might watch young lovers. Mannering felt the comfort which Lorna’s presence so often gave him. He led the way into the study. Lorna took off her hat and shook her hair loose, sat down and kicked off her shoes. Mannering pushed a pouffe under her legs; lovely legs with slender ankles. He sat on the pouffe and ran his right hand up and down the shimmery nylon.

  He could not come right out with the story, Lorna had to have a little respite. David would come to no harm at Cannon Row. A big question was rearing up in Mannering’s mind about the assistant; why hadn’t the lad sent for a solicitor? Any solicitor consulted would certainly get straight in touch with the owner of Quinns. David was a puzzle in more ways than one.

  Ten minutes of idle talk would harm no one.

  “Good time?” he inquired.

  “Lovely.”

  “How’s Lucy?”

  “As lively as ever,” Lorna told him and began to laugh. She talked quickly and amusingly for five minutes, said ‘no’ to a drink and ‘yes’ to some tea. Ethel brought in the tea and asked if there was anything else before she went to bed; she would love to hear the top ten on Luxembourg.

  “You get off, Ethel,” Lorna said. When the door had closed, she asked: “What is it, John?”

  He shrugged. “Not one of our best days.”

  “I thought there was something when you telephoned. Darling, what—”

  The telephone bell rang.

  Mannering got up, hoping that it was Bristow. It was. Lorna sat upright in the winged armchair, watching him. Mannering tried to make sure that he saw the whole situation clearly; he had done the wrong thing so often today that he was over anxious to do the right one now.

  “You called me?” Bristow sounded aloof.

  “Yes, Bill.” Mannering was watching Lorna. “I’m told that you’ve arrested David Levinson.”

  Lorna echoed in a whisper: “Arrested?” She took her legs off the pouffe.

  “We have,” Bristow said.

  “What’s the charge?”

  “He’ll be up in court in the morning on a charge of being in possession of a piece of antique jewellery knowing it to have been stolen,” Bristow replied. “We can make that one stick.”

  “I’d like to come over and have a word with him,” Mannering said. “May I?”

  Bristow could say no; could play to the letter of the law and allow only a legal adviser to see David. If he did so, it would be a declaration of war; probably the answer would depend on how much he, Bristow, wanted Mannering’s help with the Gentians. Bristow was a long time. Lorna came across and stood by Mannering’s side.

  “All right,” Bristow said at last. “But come right away – I want to get some sleep tonight, I’ve been hard at it all day.”

  “I’ll be with you in twenty minutes,” Mannering promised. He put down the receiver. “Darling, I’ll tell you all about this as soon as I’m back. Bristow’s in a reasonable mood and I want to take advantage of it. Will you—”

  “You’ll tell me about it on the way to the Yard,” Lorna decided.

  Mannering’s car, a grey Bentley, was parked in a lockup garage nearby; they were turning out of Green Street within five minutes and heading fast for Westminster. It was barely fifteen minutes after he had talked to Bristow that Mannering swung the car into Cannon Row, within the shadow of Big Ben on one side and New Scotland Yard on the other. As he opened the door, Lorna said: “I’ll wait for you here.”

  “Go and see if you can talk to Lord Gentian,” Mannering urged. “I’ll come straight there. Tell him I must see him. If I’m to help I must know the whole story tonight.”

  “All right,” Lorna said. “I’ll try.”

  She shifted from her seat to Mannering’s as he got out, and started off before he stepped inside the gloomy hall of the police station. Two men in uniform were on duty in the hall, and a man in the charge-room kept singing in a high-pitched voice: “I wanna go home.” Two detectives in plain clothes thudded past, obviously in a hurry.

  A sergeant approached.

  “Mr Bristow’s expecting you, Mr Mannering. The messenger will take you along.”

  The messenger was a grey-haired, rather frail-looking policeman in uniform but without a helmet; a helmetless policeman always had a kind of undressed look, like a man in his braces and shirt sleeves. This one was sprightly, though, and kept glancing at Mannering much in the way Ethel glanced at intriguing callers. They went downstairs to the cells. Bristow was standing with his back to the door of a cell which was open; the turnkey on duty was just outside. David was saying: “There’s nothing more I can tell you.”

  “You’ll change your mind,” Bristow said. He turned round; obviously he had heard Mannering coming. “Good evening, Mr Mannering.”

  Mannering said, formally: “Good evening, Superintendent. Thank you for this concession.” He went further into the cell. “Hallo, David. I don’t know what’s gone wrong, but we’ll soon have you out of this mess.”

  He expected to be greeted eagerly; expected David to have been waiting for him, sure that he could help. Instead, the young man stood with his back to the narrow, single bed, his lips pursed, his eyes dull. He looked as if he had a severe headache. His hair was untidy, and a thick black lock hung in a heavy wave over his right eye; he made no attempt to push it back. His chin was already showing black with stubble.

  “Good evening, sir,” he said stiffly.

  “Has a doctor looked at your head?”

  “I don’t need a doctor.”

  “Why should a doctor be needed?” Bristow demanded.

  Mannering said: “He had a nasty bump on the head this afternoon.” He wondered what was going on in his assistant’s mind. David had been difficult with Chittering, showing far more temperament than he had ever done before; now his mood helped to explain his failure to send for legal help.

  “If a doctor is necessary—” Bristow began.

  “I tell you I don’t need a doctor,” Levinson interrupted gratingly. “I just want to be left alone.”

  “I’ll allow you five minutes with the prisoner,” Bristow said to Mannering, and went outside. The cell door snapped to behind them.

  “I don’t know how this happened, but I’ll help you in every way I can,” Mannering said. “Have you sent for a solicitor?”

  “No.”

  “Why not?”

  “Because I can’t afford one.”

  “Why didn’t you ask the police to tell me what had happened? I would have arranged for help. T
he more I know about the problem so that I can brief my solicitor, the better.”

  “You know very well why I didn’t send for you,” Levinson said in a hard voice.

  “David, what’s got into you?” Mannering found his temper rising; it would be easy to be annoyed. There seemed no point in Levinson’s attitude, it was almost as if he was being deliberately rude, as he had with Chittering. “If you don’t talk freely I can’t help you as much as I want to.”

  “Don’t be such a bloody hypocrite,” David burst out. “You got me into this. Why should you try to get me out?”

  Mannering cautioned himself: Take it easy, getting hot under the collar won’t help. He moved back and sat on the one wooden chair.

  “You could try to be objective,” he said mildly. “Remember we haven’t more than three minutes left. What makes you think that I got you into this?”

  “You must have taken it.”

  “The miniature sword?”

  “Of course. What else could I mean?”

  “It was there when I left, half an hour or so after you,” Mannering told him.

  Levinson did not answer; the expression in his eyes showed disbelief.

  “David,” Mannering went on softly, “you’ve got to believe this. If we’re going to get the trouble cleared up, we’ve got to work together. Tell me exactly what happened.”

  “I did precisely what you told me,” answered Levinson, stiffly. “I went away from the mews, telephoned the Daily Globe and arranged an appointment with Chittering – a fat lot of use he proved to be. You then sent me away from your flat. I went via Hillbery Mews and Gentian House. When I got to my own flat, a man was hiding there – he took me by surprise and knocked me out. Well, nearly knocked me out. Nothing was missing from the flat, so I didn’t tell the police and I didn’t call you. Two detectives came along soon afterwards, searched the flat, and found—my God, why did you do it? Why did you put the sword down the side of my chair?”

  Mannering said, in a bleak voice: “You should know that there is no reason in the world why I should.”

  “Well, it happened.”

  “Did you see this man in your flat?”

  “Just.”

  “What was he like?”

  Levinson drew a deep breath: “Like you.”

  “David, don’t be a fool—”

  “So I’m the fool, when I saw you with my own eyes. Oh, your face was covered, you made sure that I couldn’t swear that it was you, but—”

  “Get this into your head: it wasn’t me.” When Levinson stood there in stubborn disbelief, breathing hard through distended nostrils, Mannering went on in a reasoning voice: “Apart from the circumstantial evidence, what put this idea into your head? You might have thought that I was the obvious person to take the miniature and the obvious one to put it in your flat, but in your normal frame of mind you would have known that was nonsense. Why don’t you, now?”

  “Everything is too obvious.”

  “It may look obvious—”

  “Oh, go away and leave me alone!”

  Before Mannering could speak again, there was a tap at the door; a moment later the key turned in the lock, and Bristow stepped in.

  Bristow and Mannering walked along Cannon Row and across the courtyard at Scotland Yard. The night was cloudy, and stars only sparkled occasionally through gaps in them; there was a spit of rain in the air, too, and it was cold for early August. Now and again a gust of wind swept from the Embankment gates into the Yard, up the steps. They went inside and along the wide, bleak passages, up the open-sided elevator, and along to Bristow’s office. Once they were there, Mannering said: “I want you to know exactly what happened today, Bill.”

  “That I doubt,” Bristow said. “But try me.”

  Mannering had a feeling, while talking, that Bristow wasn’t really paying attention. Bristow sat at a desk set slantwise across his small office; the blinds were down at windows which overlooked the Embankment. Except for the occasional gust of wind sweeping against those windows, it was quiet outside; the building itself seemed hushed.

  Mannering finished: “And for some reason Levinson thinks that I am prepared to let him carry the baby.”

  Bristow was rolling a cigarette from corner to corner of his mouth. He looked straightly, almost bleakly, at Mannering.

  “Listen,” he said. “Levinson’s fingerprints were all over the mews flat. There isn’t a sign of yours. Levinson was seen at the flat; no one saw you. Levinson’s been lying like a trooper ever since we pulled him in – his manner has been shifty and evasive, there isn’t any doubt in my mind that he’s got a load on his conscience. He’s lied time and time again – one lie we can prove is that he said he left the mews for Quinns, whereas in fact he did not go back to Quinns. I telephoned Larraby to find out. He went to see Chittering. You’ve done a lot of crazy things in your life, John. Making this kind of fake confession in order to take the pressure off a young fool you’ve taken a liking to is one of the craziest. From what I’ve seen, you’ll be far better off without him. Forget the heroics.”

  That was the moment when Mannering realised what lay ahead. Levinson hadn’t helped himself. He, Mannering, hadn’t yet found the way to help him. As he sat there, Bristow opened a drawer in his desk and took out a small plastic bag, which was tied at the neck. The plastic robbed the miniature sword inside of its beauty, but it was still a lovely thing. Tied to the neck of the bag was a label: Exhibit found inside a chair in front room of Levinson’s flat at 17, James Street, W.C.1.

  Mannering stood up, wondering whether Bristow really believed the case against Levinson, or whether he meant to use it as a way of exerting more pressure to make him, Mannering, help in the Gentian affair.

  His thought switched from that to Lorna, wondering how she was getting on. He was looking out for a taxi when Chittering leaned out of one, near the court, and called: “Like a lift, sir?”

  Mannering jumped in.

  “Thanks,” he said. “How much shall I have to pay for that in inside stories?”

  “You’re too cynical about newspapermen, that’s your trouble,” complained Chittering. “John, I’ve discovered the story which you and Bristow and everyone else half remembers. It happened fifty years ago but the story has been rehashed in the spectacular Sundays several times, that’s why it sticks in your mind. Gentian had a brother, very like him in appearance and in habits. They went on explorations together, and were in Africa – in Southern Rhodesia – when the brother fell into the Zambesi. His body was half devoured by crocodiles before it was pulled out.”

  Mannering said: “Yes, that would stick in the mind.” He took some cuttings which Chittering handed him, and turned them over.

  “And Gentian’s own little motherless son died some months later, while his father was still in Africa. No wonder he stayed out there so long before coming home!”

  He went through the cuttings again, stopping suddenly at one dated only nineteen years before. “What’s this?”

  “Gentian had a sister, who died – Orde was her only child,” Chittering went on. “Gentian’s brother had a son who married, and whose wife bore him Sara. They were both killed in a car crash when Sara was five. There’s a report of it. That’s enough to turn a sensitive mind, isn’t it? Help that girl, John.”

  “If she can be helped by anything I can do, I’ll help her,” promised Mannering.

  He pictured Lorna again – Lorna, with Sara Gentian, who so desperately needed help.

  As young David did.

  “I’m going to let you get a cab now,” Chittering said. “I’ve a rush job on. But I wanted you to know what I’ve told you.”

  He stopped near Trafalgar Square, and Mannering got out, said: “Thanks,” and hailed a taxi.

  13

  GENTIAN HOUSE

  A si
ngle electric lamp, a relic of London’s streets of a decade ago, stood in the middle of the courtyard outside Gentian House, spreading a gentle light which was reflected from the tall windows with their small oblong panes. A light showed against the fanlight over the big, black painted front door. Lorna pressed the bell and waited for several seconds. A scud of rain came sweeping on the window, and she felt the cold sting of it against her cheeks. London here seemed quiet and dark, although it wasn’t really late; the hum of traffic from the new roads and the flyover at Hyde Park Corner came very clearly.

  No one answered, so she pressed the bell again.

  Wind made her skirt billow and made her shiver. She wished that someone would come quickly. There was a kind of eeriness here and although that was surely an absurd thought she couldn’t push it out of her mind. The street was only sixty feet away and yet seemed to belong to another world; or another age.

  She put a finger to the bell again, thinking: “It isn’t much after eleven,” but before she touched it, the door opened and a big man stood in the doorway, his shadow covering her.

  “What is it?”

  She could not see him clearly, but the way he was standing against the light made him look huge and ape-like. That was another ridiculous thought. But his shoulders were hunched, he held his arms in front of him aggressively and seemed to crouch. He could not really see her clearly, because he was in his own light.

  She said: “I am Mrs Mannering. I would like to see Lord Gentian.”

  “Mrs Mannering?” The man’s voice was deep, and seemed to take on a note of genuine surprise. He was Orde, of course – John had told her about Claude Orde.

  “Yes,” she said. “Is Lord Gentian in?”

  “He is, but I don’t know whether he’ll see anyone,” said Orde. “Come in.” He stood to one side, and immediately was reduced to man-size – big and pudgy-looking, rather comical with his nearly bald head and big eyes. As Lorna passed him, he closed the door. “Where’s Mr Mannering?”