Meet The Baron

by John Creasey

  Lorna seemed petrified; the thing had happened so swiftly. Mannering swung towards the telephone while Bristow was still dropping to the floor. He had dialled his number before Bristow’s head dropped back, but he need not have worried, for his man was unconscious.

  Mannering was almost frenzied with excitement, and his eyes were gleaming. The wait for the response to his call seemed never-ending. But a voice came at last, a rather sleepy and irritable voice.

  “Hallo, there! Yes, yes?”

  The Colonel, thought Mannering. And: “Let me speak to Gerry,” he said, keeping his voice steady with a great effort. “Yes, Gerry Long; quickly.”

  “A minute,” grunted Colonel Belton at the other end of the wire.

  The minute seemed age-long.

  Bristow was still stretched out, unconscious. Lorna seemed to break through the stupefaction which had gripped her when she had seen the policeman go down, and her eyes brightened.

  “What shall we do with it?” she demanded.

  “Lose it, with luck,” snapped Mannering. “If this man keeps me waiting much longer I’ll …”

  “But why can’t I take it?” Lorna almost cried the words. “I could get to the river, drop it down a drain.”

  “And have the police pestering you, questioning you and your father, your mother and - ”

  “But it doesn’t matter. You’ll be all right.”

  Mannering’s eyes were very warm.

  “You’re very dear,” he said. “But I think we can get away with it . . . Ah! Gerry . . .” He swung round to the telephone; and Gerry Long, cheerful again now, answered quickly.

  “Hm-hm. Want me, Mannering?”

  “Come to my flat,” snapped Mannering, “the back way. You came once before - remember?”

  “Yes.” Long seemed to realize the urgency in the other’s tone. There was crispness in his voice at the other end of the wire.

  “Stand in the courtyard,” snapped Mannering, “and catch the thing I’m going to throw out of the window. Then lose it. A drain, or the river, somewhere. And for God’s sake be here inside five minutes - less if you can make it.”

  “Right,” said Long, and Mannering heard the click of the receiver.

  He swung round towards the girl, and his eyes were dancing with hope. But there was anxiety in his expression, for time was precious.

  “I think we’ll do it,” he muttered. “I wish to heaven you weren’t here, my dear, but it’ll be best for you to stop now.”

  Lorna nodded. She did not know why, but she accepted Mannering’s assurance without question. But there was one thing worrying her, and she pointed towards Bristow, who was lying at full length, still motionless.

  “What about - him?”

  Mannering could see the rise and fall of the detective’s chest, and he believed that the other would regain consciousness in a few minutes, none the worse for his knock-out, but very bad-tempered and with a stronger dislike of the Baron than ever.

  “He’ll be all right,” he grunted. “The thing is - will Gerry get here first, or Tanker - the policeman?”

  “Oh, my dear . . .”

  He broke off, white to the lips. There was a thud of heavy feet on the landing outside the front door of the flat. Mannering’s face paled, but his voice was steady.

  He held out the bullet to the girl.

  “I’ll go,” he said. “If it’s the police get into the bedroom, wait for Gerry, and throw that down when he comes. I’ll keep them out - somehow.”

  But he doubted whether he could. He knew that Sergeant Jacob (Tanker) Tring was a shrewd officer, and would have no hesitation in breaking into every room in the flat when he saw his superior lying unconscious; and if Tring got into the room in time to see Gerry Long outside the game was up.

  As he turned the handle of the door he was wishing that he had let Lorna take the bullet out of the flat. She would have had time to get away; the proof would have been missing. But before he had opened the door he knew that he had done the only thing. It lessened the chance of dragging Lorna’s name through the mud, and if it was humanly possible that had to be avoided.

  He pulled the door open, his face set to greet Tring.

  And then he stood very still for a moment, staring at a large, solemn-faced man who was resting a heavy attaché-case on the floor, and who was proffering packets of notepaper and envelopes.

  “Would you care to buy” The man’s opening words came smoothly.

  “I’ll make you a gift,” said Mannering, recovering from the surprise and acting quickly.

  The man’s face brightened at the sight of a free half crown, but darkened as the door was shut in his face abruptly. He pocketed the coin, and walked on to the next flat, shrugging his shoulders and lugging his case, knowing nothing of the alarm he had caused.

  Mannering hurried towards Lorna, who was standing by the door. She had known from his words that it had been a false alarm. Quickly he explained, and went to the window anxiously. The alleyway along which Gerry Long would have to come was empty.

  And then Mannering’s face hardened; this time there was no mistake. He could just see into Brook Street, for his flat was near a corner, and he saw the police car, which was travelling at a generous forty miles an hour along the road. He recognized the dour face of Tanker Tring next to the driver, and he knew that the game was almost over.

  Lorna saw his change of expression, and guessed why. Her eyes clouded, and for the life of her she could not have spoken.

  “They’ll be here in a moment,” Mannering muttered. “I’ll give them a minute - no more. Why the hell doesn’t Long come?”

  The question was useless. They waited and watched tensely, with their ears pricked to catch the slightest sound from the front of the flat. It was a matter of seconds now. Once the police arrived the chance was gone.

  And then Mannering saw the thing he wanted most in the world just then. Gerry Long was hurrying along the alleyway and staring up at the window. The seconds passed like hours, and Mannering felt like a man possessed when the knock thundered on the front door with the American barely within throwing distance.

  “Answer it,” Mannering said to Lorna very grimly.

  Lorna moved away, fear clutching at her, a mad unreasoning fear that it was too late to save Mannering now. But Mannering, in that last tense moment, hardly noticed her. He saw that Long was hurrying, and he could see the anxiety on the American’s face. Long was in the small courtyard leading from the alley now. Mannering moved to the window, waved, and pressed a finger to his lips. He was trembling like a leaf as he tossed the bullet down. Was it in time?

  Long waited below with his hands poised. The bullet dropped into them safely, and Mannering felt a tremendous relief He was through!

  And then Lorna’s voice came, raised in an agony of “John, be careful, be careful!”

  Mannering swung round as the door was pushed open violently. He saw Bristow, conscious but wild-eyed, outlined in the doorway, and the policeman lunged towards him, cursing. Mannering stood back rigidly, watchfully, his face blank. Bristow saw the open window and guessed the rest. He leaped for the opening and stared out. In the distance he could see Gerry Long’s head and shoulders, but the American was too far away now to be recognized. But Bristow wasn’t finished

  “I’ll get you,” he snapped. “Don’t make any mistake about that, Mannering.”

  As he spoke he leaped towards the window.

  Mannering knew what the other was going to do The one chance that remained for Bristow to get the bullet was to catch the man who was running away. The one way to start was through the window; seconds counted, as much for the one man as the other.

  Bristow hesitated for the fraction of a second to reconnoitre the position. There was no fire-escape near him, but immediately beneath the window was a Y-shaped drain-pipe that offered a slender hold. Had Bristow not been groggy and aware only of the desperate need for catching the man in the alley he might have thought twice about trying
to get down that way.

  He hardly hesitated, however, and flung one leg over the sill. He rested his foot on the drain-pipe, and then lowered himself Mannering realized the danger, and cried out in genuine alarm.

  “Steady, Bristow - steady!”

  And then Bristow slipped. Mannering heard a crack! and he knew in a flash that the drain-pipe had broken.

  For a sickening moment Mannering thought that the other was over. It was a long drop to the courtyard below, a drop on to solid concrete, and there could be only one end if Bristow went down. Tragedy loomed in front of him . . .

  Then he saw the tips of the detective’s fingers on the window-ledge. He was at the window in two strides, and for a moment he forgot the wound in his shoulder; he had to. He leaned out and gripped the other’s left wrist as Bristow’s precarious hold was loosened. Every thought but that of saving the detective was out of his mind now.

  The full weight of Bristow’s body was thrown on Mannering’s injured shoulder. The pain stabbed through him, agonizing, excruciating. For a moment he was afraid that he could not hold on. Sweat covered his forehead, and his teeth gritted against one another. But he hung on, with Bristow dangling below; and slowly he manoeuvred his left hand to the support of his right.

  Grunting with pain, conscious only of the one task, he kept his hold. The pain seemed to be running through his whole body now, and he was wet with sweat. Bristow seemed to grow heavier as the seconds dragged by, but he came no higher. Then his wrist slipped an inch . . .

  Mannering groaned.

  He didn’t see the door open, or Tanker Tring, with his face set in alarm, in the doorway. Tring gulped - and then he moved rapidly towards the window, taking the situation in at a glance. He leaned out, fastening his hands round Bristow’s wrists below Mannering’s.

  Mannering eased his hold, and stumbled back into the room, while Tanker raised his stentorian voice for the other men who had come with him. They were already in the room, but Mannering, leaning against the wall, didn’t see them as they hurried across; nor did he see the three of them haul Bristow up, slowly but easily.

  Mannering felt 1ike death.

  His face was chalk-white. His eyes were closed, his breath was coming unsteadily. Lorna Fauntley, terrified in case the effort to get rid of the bullet had failed, hardly daring to look into the room, forced herself to enter, and saw Mannering.

  Concern drove the fear from her eyes. She went forward quickly, and Mannering heard her voice, as if from a long way off.

  “It’s all right, John - all right - ”

  Then Mannering fainted.

  Almost at the same moment the policemen by the window dragged Bristow into the room. Tanker Tring was wondering what in heaven’s name had happened, but he concentrated on taking charge of the situation as it was. He found a decanter of whisky and poured a generous portion between Bristow’s lips. He grunted as his superior spluttered and coughed, and absentmindedly tasted the spirits. He’d learn everything soon enough.

  23: Bristow Dislikes His Job

  Detective-Inspector William Bristow looked morosely at his sergeant, but said nothing. Tring was eaten up with curiosity, but he knew when to ask questions and when to keep silent. He stared idly at the half-empty decanter.

  Bristow muttered something inaudible under his breath. The two detectives who had helped in his rescue had gone back to the Yard, with the woman detective. Bristow knew that it was useless to look for the bullet now.

  He didn’t feel that he wanted to look for the bullet. He remembered the terrible moment when he had dangled over the window-ledge, and he remembered the relief that had surged through him when Mannering had gripped him. And then, when he had recovered well enough to take charge, he had seen Mannering stretched out on the floor, and he had seen the pool of blood from the wound which had reopened in the Baron’s shoulder.

  Bristow was a man, as well as a policeman. He knew that he had been saved from death - or at least from severe injuries - by Mannering’s efforts, and he could guess how much those efforts had cost the other man.

  And yet –

  Mannering was the Baron.

  Bristow grunted again. He was a policeman, and a policeman had no right to allow sentiment of any kind to interfere with his duty. He knew that Mannering was the Baron, and that in that flat there was enough to prove it. The bullet might be missing, but the jewels would still be there.

  That bitterness he had felt towards Mannering because of the ease with which the other had outwitted him and duped him was gone. It was a straightforward job of being a policeman that remained, but it was the most distasteful one that he had ever experienced; nevertheless it had to be done.

  He got up suddenly and started to speak. Before he had said two words, however, Lorna Fauntley came out of the bedroom. Her face was pale, her tone almost listless.

  “He’ll have to have a doctor,” she said.

  Bristow motioned to the telephone. Tanker, not unaware of the woman’s beauty, clambered up with rather clumsy courtesy and muttered: “I’ll get one along, miss.”

  Bristow stared at the girl, who eyed him more than a little wearily.

  “Well?” she said.

  “I don’t like it,” muttered Bristow, “but it’s got to be done. Did he bring a case with him last night?”

  Lorna’s lips tightened obstinately. Bristow passed a hand across his forehead.

  “For heaven’s sake don’t make it difficult!” he snapped. “It’ll be the same in the long run. We’re bound to find it.”

  She hesitated, and then nodded. Her voice was dull.

  “All right,” she said. “It’s in there - the bedroom. He’s still unconscious - don’t make a noise.”

  Bristow grunted, and walked heavily towards the room, feeling no satisfaction.

  Lorna waited until the door closed behind him. She glanced at Tanker Tring, whose back was towards her, and who was saying ‘hallo’ deliberately and tirelessly into the mouthpiece. If either of them had looked at her at that moment they must have known that something was wrong. But neither of them did.

  She slipped a key into the lock of the bureau drawer, opened it quickly and silently, and took the little bundle of pearls that was there, wrapped in cotton-wool, with Mannering’s blue mask. The Rosa pearls. Mannering had told her of them a few minutes before, and she was making a last effort; even now it might fail.

  She slipped the things into the ‘V’ of her dress, and pushed the drawer back. Tring muttered into the telephone for a moment, and replaced it, turning round and seeing the girl leaning wearily against the bureau, motionless. He grunted again. Something was certainly wrong, and she’d had a nasty turn, that he knew.

  Bristow opened the bedroom door at that moment, and came out.

  There was a twisted smile on his lips as he stared at Lorna, but her face was set. She looked completely beaten and hopeless. Bristow’s smile changed slowly to an expression of bewilderment. Surely it wasn’t possible that he’d been wrong?

  He knew that it wasn’t. He knew that Mannering and the Baron were one and the same. But he couldn’t prove it! The bullet was gone, and the brown suitcase in the bedroom was filled with the costume of a Charles II beau! There were no jewels!

  “Turn this place inside out,” he snapped to Tring.

  Tanker shrugged his shoulders, deciding that it was not a moment to speak, and started his job.

  Lorna Fauntley had never seen the police at work before. She was surprised by the thoroughness of the search. Drawers, pictures, carpets, furniture, everything was moved and turned inside out, and everything was replaced in its exact position.

  But there was nothing there which could interest them, and Lorna’s heart was beating fast.

  Bristow called enough at last. He looked at the girl, and he was uncertain whether there was triumph in her eyes or whether it was sheer relief He was inclined to think that it was relief. He shrugged.

  “I don’t know how he did it,” he muttered,
half to himself, “but he did.” He glared at Tring. “Why the blazes don t you stop staring?” he snapped. “Get out can’t you?”

  Tring was saved from the necessity of a retort by the arrival of the doctor. Bristow’s last sight of Lorna Fauntley that day was of her hurrying into the bedroom, followed by the portly, grey-haired physician.

  Gerry Long was satisfied to do what he was asked and to show no curiosity. He owed Mannering his life, and there was little that he would not do to pay that debt. When, after the affair of the morning - he had dropped the bullet into the Thames at Westminster - he received a telephone message from Lorna Fauntley. He made no bones about doing what she asked. It was a simple enough task. He had to go to the New Arts Hall and ask for the attaché case which had been left in a private cubicle on the previous night. The initials on the case were J.M. The job was accomplished successfully, and Long, still on Lorna’s instructions, took it to the Waterloo cloakroom and left it there under the name of James Mitchell. It was not until six months later that he realized that he had taken the Ramon jewels and Mannering’s gas pistol to the station.

  Gerry Long was to learn a great many things in the next six months, but for the time being he was content to remain in the dark.

  At his flat Mannering leaned back on his pillow and smiled at Lorna Fauntley. The doctor had gone. After the straining it had received the wound was nasty, but it would yield to treatment, and neither of them was worried about it. Lorna was still worried, however, about the possibility of trouble from Bristow, but Mannering doubted whether it would come.

  “He didn’t like his job after the window episode, my dear. I’ll be surprised if we hear anything more from him over this business. But that doesn’t mean we can do as we like in future. He’s a good fellow, but he’ll stick to his job. God,” he added, “but it was close! If you hadn’t managed to get the pearls, Lorna, it would have been all up. Tring didn’t notice you - ”

  “No more than Bristow noticed you weren’t unconscious,” said Lorna, and her smile was bright.

  Mannering closed his eyes for a moment, going over the affair in his mind.