Shadow The Baron

by John Creasey

  Mannering shifted his chair, so that he could see them better. The man, probably in the early forties, was handsome in a formal way. He had an air of wellbeing, and there was nothing in his expression to suggest that he was aware of Smith’s attention. The woman looked motherly and harassed; it was easy to tell that it was she who had been disturbed by that raking glance.

  “Who?” asked Mannering.

  “Major, courtesy title only, Fleming. And Mrs. Fleming. They have one daughter.”

  Mannering said: “Well, well!”

  “I couldn’t resist springing it on you,” Chittering said. “I knew that Smith often came here, and kept an eye on the advance bookings. Lulu’s always helpful. Then I discovered that some Flemings had also booked for tonight, so I did a bit of detective work, and discovered that they have a daughter Celia. She left home nearly a year ago. They live in Guildford – he’s semi-retired, does a bit of fruit farming and keeps livestock of one kind or another. Oh – Oxford, the old type. You can tell that at a glance.”

  Mannering said: “Here’s Chloe.”

  They danced. Mannering discovered that though she remained as silent and dreamy-eyed as ever, Chloe danced extremely well. Rather surprisingly, he enjoyed it.

  Smith and Celia Fleming rose at once, melting into the dance just that little bit better than any other couple on the floor. The Flemings watched from their table, until the tempo increased and several couples dropped out. Mannering and Chloe, Smith and Celia and three other couples were alone on the floor.

  Then Fleming got up.

  His wife put out a hand, as if to stop him. Fleming smiled at her, and walked towards the dance floor.

  Turning, Smith saw him, and missed a step.

  Fleming smiled; but it wasn’t a normal smile, and Mannering seeing his hands clenched, half expected what was coming. If Smith guessed, he did nothing about it. Suddenly, without fuss or bother Fleming hit him.

  “Oh!” gasped Chloe, and fell against Mannering,

  Smith bent double, hands at his stomach, Fleming hit him again. At that tense moment, the band stopped, hypnotised by what was happening on the floor. Smith staggered and then fell. Fleming turned away, as if at an unpleasant job completed. It was then that Celia leapt at him. There was fury in her eyes, as she beat at his face with clawed fingers. Fleming backed away, trying to fend her off. It was like trying to keep away from a tiger.

  Smith began to pick himself up.

  Mannering reached Celia, and gripped her round the waist. Every muscle in her body was quivering; he could see her teeth clenched beneath her drawn lips. Fleming, with blood on his cheeks and one eye closed, moved back to his wife who was standing like a statue, by her table.

  Celia stood in Mannering’s grasp, glaring at the man whom he believed to be her father. The hatred smouldered and flared up again in her eyes. Indifferent to Mannering, she made no attempt to get away.

  Smith put a hand on Mannering’s arm.

  “Enough,” he said.

  Mannering let the girl go. Smith took her back to the table. She sat down, looking straight ahead of her. Mannering watched her with concealed interest. She was rigid, head in a statuesque and unnatural calm. Without speaking, Smith refilled her glass. He put something into her hand, and she took it automatically. A moment later, she put her hand to her mouth, and then sipped champagne. After that, she closed her eyes and sat quite still.

  The Flemings were already out of the room.

  Mannering returned to his table as the band struck up. Chloe was looking excited, Jane stunned. Chittering’s expression held the cherubic false innocence of a fourteen year old.

  “Chloe,” said Mannering, “you’ll never forgive me, but I have to go. I’d forgotten that I had an appointment. If I can get back, I will. If not, another night – you’re the most accomplished dancer I know.” He took her hand and bowed low over it, smiled towards the silent Jane, and hurried to the door.

  On the first floor, by the cloakroom, Lulu was murmuring to Major Fleming that she was sure he quite understood that she would rather he never came to the club again. Fleming was dabbing at his eye with a bloodstained handkerchief, and a girl was helping his wife into her coat. Mannering hurried downstairs ahead of them, and was waiting on the pavement when they arrived.

  The commissionaire said: “Cab, sir?”

  “Oh, please” cried Mrs. Fleming.

  “I wonder if I can help, my car’s handy,” said Mannering.

  “Well, I . . .” began Mrs. Fleming.

  Fleming said: “Thank you, Mr. Mannering.”

  “You know each other?” Mrs. Fleming sounded surprised and relieved. Neither of the men spoke again, and soon they were in the Sunbeam Talbot.

  “Where to?” Mannering asked.

  “The Milne Court Hotel,” said Fleming, mentioning a small and exclusive hotel in Knightsbridge.

  Mannering drove fast, and they reached the hotel just before one o’clock.

  “Come and have a drink, Mannering,” said Fleming.

  “Bob, you really ought to have your face . . .”

  “Thanks,” said Mannering. “I’m useful at first aid Mrs. Fleming.”

  They passed the night staff, ignoring their discreet surprise at Fleming’s cut face. Reaching their room, Fleming unlocked the door, and stood aside. Mrs. Fleming led the way in, Mannering followed. He saw her shrink back, could imagine the scream which sprang to her lips. He leapt to her support as Fleming exclaimed: “What’s the matter? What”

  Then his voice trailed off.

  A girl lay on the bed, with her arms out flung, one leg hanging over the side. A stocking was tied tightly round her neck. Her lips were parted, her eyes half open and glazed.

  13: Murder

  Mrs. Fleming slumped down, a dead weight. Mannering half carried her to a chair, and eased her into it. He stood back as Fleming closed the door and walked across to the bed. He stood looking down, for the moment stunned, incapable of taking any further action. Mannering pushed past him, taking a penknife from his pocket. The stocking was buried into the girl’s neck, and the knot was too tight for him to undo. He eased the blade between the skin and the stocking, and began to cut. Strands fell apart.

  “It’s a waste of time,” Fleming said harshly.

  Mannering felt the girl’s pulse. Fleming was right; there was no trace of movement.

  Mrs. Fleming began to moan.

  Fleming said: “So he’s got me.”

  “Smith?”

  “Yes, He swore that he would finish me.” Fleming’s voice was strangely quiet

  “So you know the girl?”

  “Yes. She’s a friend of Celia, my daughter.”

  “Her name.”

  “Muriel Lee.”

  “A friend of yours, too?”

  “No. I always blamed her for what happened to Celia.”

  “Starting her on dope, you mean?”

  “Yes.”

  “Had you quarrelled?”

  “The last time I saw the girl, I told her that I’d gladly kill her. That was in public.”

  “Pity,” said Mannering. “And you seriously think that Smith lured the girl here, and killed her?”

  “Or had her killed.”

  “The story might stand up,” said Mannering. “Murder’s hard to pin on to an innocent man. The police aren’t fools. Any reason to think you could get evidence against Smith?”

  “None whatever.”

  “In that case,” Mannering said crisply, “you can do one of three things. Send for the police immediately. Run away and hide . . .”

  “Not that,” Fleming said. “That’s what Smith probably thinks I’ll do.”

  Mannering didn’t comment on that strange remark, but finished imperturbably, “Or we could get the girl out of here.”

  Fleming said: “Don’t be a fool, Mannering.” He went across to the bedside telephone.

  “Don’t call the police yet,” Mannering said. “I’d like you to tell me first what
the position is. Celia is your daughter. Paul Smith has taken her away from her family. There’s hatred between you. What started it?”

  “He hypnotised her – fascinated her – call it what you like. She changed completely. She was a lovely girl, kind and good. He turned her whole character. You saw what happened tonight. She worships him. He keeps her mind dulled through drugs. She hasn’t got to the stage where she can be – helped – in the usual way. Fleming passed a shaking hand over his face. “I’ve known Smith for some time. God forgive me, it was through me they met.”

  “Where did you meet him?”

  “In the Army.”

  “Will you tell me why you decided to go to Lulu’s tonight?”

  “There’s one way to hurt Smith – through his pride. Being humiliated in public would hurt him more than anything I know. I went there just to do that.”

  “Well, you did it,” Mannering said.

  Mrs. Fleming’s eyes were flickering and she was making little moaning sounds. Fleming went across to her, and knelt by the side of the chair, taking her hands.

  “Call the police for me, Mannering, will you.”

  Mannering dialled Whitehall 1212. He was hardly surprised to hear that Bristow wasn’t in his office. He spoke to an Inspector, rang off and dialled another number.

  Bristow’s voice answered, sharp and clear.

  “Hallo, John. Going to make a confession?”

  “Yes. I butted in where I needn’t have done, and found a corpse. It’s nothing to do with me, Bill, but it’s on your beat. The Milne Court Hotel, Knightsbridge, and yes, I’ll be waiting here.” He rang off before Bristow could comment, and sauntered across to the Flemings.

  “I can’t stand it any longer, I can’t stand it,” Mrs. Fleming muttered. She began to shiver.

  “We’ve got to get her out of here,” Fleming said urgently.

  “That shouldn’t take long.” Mannering looked hard into the woman’s face and then went back to the telephone. After some hesitation he was put through to the manager. “Will you come along to Room 55, with some brandy?” asked Mannering. “This is urgent. I would also like to know if there is a vacant room nearby.”

  “Who is that speaking?”

  “I’m speaking for Major Fleming – there’s been an accident.”

  “Expect me in one minute.” The manager’s voice was tense. Mannering replaced the receiver and watched Fleming, who now stood hopelessly by his wife’s side. She had closed her eyes again; she seemed to have aged ten years in the past hour.

  Mannering said: “Why did you ask me to come upstairs, Fleming?”

  “Oh, never mind now.”

  “It matters.”

  Fleming passed a hand over his hair.

  “I know you by reputation. When you interfered tonight, I thought you might be interested in Paul Smith. I hoped you’d have something to tell me about him.”

  There was a tap at the door.

  Outside, a small dapper man was standing with a bottle of brandy and two glasses, on a tray.

  “As it was urgent, I brought it myself. I’m the manager, Major Reining.”

  He looked past Mannering and saw the girl on the bed; as the tray tilted, Mannering put a hand beneath it. One glass fell heavily to the carpeted floor.

  “Where’s that vacant room?” asked Mannering.

  A police patrol car arrived first, and the men reached the second floor as Mrs. Fleming was being taken into a room three doors away. Hard on their heels, two men arrived from Scotland Yard, and before they had started to ask questions, Bristow himself arrived. Three other Yard men and a police surgeon followed, and the large room was crowded. Bristow took charge, and seemed satisfied to take Mannering’s word for what had happened. Cameramen got busy, finger print men started to search for their clues. The police went about their work quickly, calmly and with impressive thoroughness. Bristow seemed unaware that Fleming and Mannering were still in the room but he had sent a man to stand outside Mrs. Fleming’s door. A maid was with her.

  Bristow crossed to Mannering and Fleming.

  “You all arrived together?”

  “Yes, Bill.”

  “Who saw the body first?”

  “My wife,” said Fleming.

  “And then?”

  “Mr. Mannering.”

  “Who cut the stocking away?”

  “I did,” Mannering said.

  “Hmm. Mr. Fleming, I’d like to see you alone for a few minutes – the manager will let us have the use of a room. Have you sent for a doctor to see your wife?”

  Fleming said: “All she needs is rest.”

  “She ought to see a doctor. I’ll get Dr. Mortimer to look at her.” Bristow went across to the police surgeon, who was finishing a cursory examination of the body, and the three men left the room together.

  Bristow was gone a long time; he came back alone.

  “Well, John!”

  “My turn,” murmured Mannering.

  “So far, so good,” said Bristow, smiling. “I’ve already checked that you reached the Lulu Club just before ten o’clock and didn’t leave until you came straight here. I also know that this room was empty at five minutes past ten, when a maid came in to put hot water bottles in the bed. So that lets you out!”

  “And the Flemings?”

  “Did you think they were surprised?”

  “They looked surprised all right. I can’t see into their minds,” Mannering said.

  “What did Fleming tell you?”

  “It’ll only be hearsay.”

  “It will help me check on what he’s told me,” said Bristow. “You’ll probably find it out yourself, so there’s no reason why I shouldn’t tell you. The Flemings came back to the hotel at a quarter past ten, and left twenty minutes later. Mrs. Fleming was agitated. You see what that could mean?”

  “Yes, I see,” said Mannering, and repeated what Fleming had told him. The telling took five minutes; relating all that had happened at the Lulu Club took another ten. By that time, the preliminary work of the police was done, the finger print men were packing up their equipment and the photographers were already on their way to the Yard. A sheet had been drawn over the girl’s face.

  “It’s a peculiar business,” Bristow said. “This daughter, Celia, really went for her father, did she?”

  “Like a wildcat.”

  “How did you come into it?”

  “I was on the floor when it happened, and someone had to stop it. Then Mrs. Fleming looked so distraught that I offered to bring her back.”

  “What were you doing at the Lulu?”

  Mannering chuckled. “Being a partner to Chloe! Apparently someone thinks I’m notorious enough to want to know, and Chloe’s a friend of Chittering on the Record”

  “Oh, so he was there, was he?” Bristow sniffed expressively. “Do you expect me to take all this at its face value?”

  “Far be it from me to expect anything,” Mannering murmured blandly. “Are you going to hold Fleming?”

  “It’s too early to say.”

  “What about Mrs. Fleming?”

  “Mortimer’s sending a nurse in for her. She’ll be all right. I wish I knew why you were interested in the Flemings, John. It couldn’t be because this man Smith was burgled the other night. Could it?”

  Mannering looked blank.

  “Was he? Who by?”

  Bristow laughed, shortly.

  There was nothing further for Mannering to stay for. He left the hotel without forming any conclusions, storing the facts both straightforward and curious. At the first telephone kiosk he called the Lulu Club. Lulu herself answered. She thought Mr. Chittering had said something about going to the office. He’d left soon after Mr, Mannering. Mr. Smith was still there. Mannering called the Record, and was told that Chittering had been in, but just gone out.

  “When you find him, tell him to get in touch with the Milne Hotel, Knightsbridge as soon as possible.”

  Mannering went outside. There were few
people about, but a straggle of late buses was rumbling along Kensington High Street. He got into the car, and drove through the dimly lit streets, parking eventually at the corner of Buckley Street.

  Three quarters of an hour later, Paul Smith and Celia arrived in a taxi.

  14: Friendly Visit

  Mannering waited until the taxi had gone, then walked to Number 13. A light in the hall, visible through a small fanlight, went out. He lifted the knocker and let it fall with a hollow reverberation. Smith opened the door, the girl hovering in the dimly lit background.

  “Good evening,” Mannering said, and stepped inside.

  Smith barred his path.

  “It’s rather late for casual visitors,” he said shortly. “Who are you?”

  “We met at Lulu’s tonight.”

  Smith stood in shadow, allowing the light to fall on to Mannering’s face. He stood utterly still, as if willing Mannering to withdraw.

  Mannering said pleasantly, “Delightful though circumlocutory preambles may be, I cannot help thinking that the time, the place, are a little ill chosen when the police are at one’s heels.”

  Smith said dryly, “Your heels or mine?” But he stood aside, nevertheless, and allowed Mannering to close the door.

  “Suppose we talk upstairs,” he said. “My name is Mannering.”

  “This is the second time tonight you’ve interfered with my private affairs.”

  Mannering moved towards the stairs, the girl going before him. Smith followed. When they reached the first landing, Smith turned down a switch; for a moment they stood in utter darkness. Mannering’s muscles tensed; he was prepared for anything. Another switch went down and a light shone out above them.

  Smith laughed softly, with insolent understanding.

  The girl reached the top landing, and turned right, towards the second flat. Mannering turned to follow her.

  “Not that door,” Smith said.

  “You’re both in this,” said Mannering.

  “We’ll discuss it between us, first.”

  “Oh, no,” said Mannering. “It must be a threesome.”

  Smith was now on a level with him.

  “I could throw you out,” he said speculatively.