by John Creasey
Mannering read it for a second time, and then thrust his hands into his pockets.
“On Friday last,” he said to the room at large, “I was on the Acquania, two days out of New York. Who in the wide world told you that the Baron had been busy?”
He pushed the paper away, and went thoughtfully into his bedroom, undressed and went to the bathroom. After a cold shower, he towelled vigorously.
“I wonder who advertised?” he mused, and then a thought flashed into his mind. “And I wonder who knows who took the stone? It couldn’t have been a big haul or it would have been in the Sunday papers. Friday, at the Maycourt—well, Leverson will know.”
One of the necessary stocks-in-trade of the Baron was the ability to change at short notice, and it was just as necessary to do without the services of a man. The service flat met all his requirements, however, and he was used to doing odd jobs for himself.
He telephoned the restaurant for a table for dinner at eight o’clock, and then sat in an easy chair, smoking. The Baron’s career was over, although not because of its dangers; there were moments when he longed to be busy again. He did not need money, though, and Lorna was worried whenever he was working; and there was no reason for the Baron to be active.
Others probably assumed he was still working.
The man or woman who had advertised that morning must have been convinced that the Baron had stolen the solitaire ring. Had an indiscreet reporter suggested it or had the obviously naive advertiser (the wording suggested an unpractised hand, despite the fact that the address was a solicitor’s) simply assumed that a jewel robbery and the Baron were synonymous? No, that was unlikely.
The immediate problem was whether or not to telephone Leverson.
He had renounced cracksmanship, and at the same time determined not to get in touch with those people whom he knew in what polite circles called the criminal fraternity.
Flick – or Mr. Arthur – Leverson was a buyer of stolen goods on a considerable scale. Apart from that he was as trustworthy and honest as any man Mannering knew – far more honest, he would say cynically, than the average business man. Although Leverson would know what jewels had been stolen from the Maycourt, and possibly be able to guess at the identity of the thief, he was on the wrong side of the line dividing Mannering from the Baron.
If there was a serious suggestion that the Baron had been busy, however, it was as well to know the reason for the assumption.
It was even possible that evidence would be forthcoming which would put him in some danger. On the other hand, it might prove a godsend. Supposing Bristow and the Yard were convinced that the Baron had been at work while Mannering had been on board ship? True, he would take some convincing, but he would have to believe the evidence if it were strong enough. It would relieve the Baron of suspicion, it would free him for all time from the attention of the police.
The possibilities went much deeper than he had seen at first sight. Neither Bristow nor any policeman had proof of his dual identity; only that had kept him out of jail. If they were faced with an unbreakable alibi for a burglary which they admitted was the Baron’s, they would have to admit themselves wrong in the past.
Mannering stubbed out his cigarette, and reached for the telephone. Soon he was connected with Leverson’s Aldgate house, and the pleasant voice of the fence came guardedly. “Who is that?”
“Mannering,” said Mannering, and the other’s voice promptly changed.
“Hallo, Mannering, I’m glad you’re back! What can I do for you?”
“I’m not sure yet whether you can do anything,” said Mannering. “Do you know much about the robbery at the Maycourt last week?”
“I believe that two or three thousand pounds’ worth of small stuff was taken,” said Leverson. “One or two pieces have been seen—all rubies, I think. Why?”
“Get an Evening Wire, and find out,” said Mannering. “Who burned his fingers, do you know?”
“I don’t know,” said Leverson.
“A pity,” said Mannering, knowing that Leverson would have told him had he known the thief, even if he had not wanted to give him away. “If you hear anything let me know, will you?”
“Yes, of course,” promised Leverson. “I suppose the Sun’s show affected you.”
Mannering was surprised by the mention of one of the more sensational morning papers.
“What kind of show?” he asked.
“Oh, the usual shortage of news, and the old canard suggesting that the burglar was the Baron. None of the other papers took it up, and the Sun dropped it after one edition.”
“It’s time the Baron started thinking of legal actions for libel,” Mannering said, grimly. “All right, Flick, and many thanks. Are you keeping well?”
They chatted for a few minutes on matters outside the orbit of jewel-thieves and expert fences, but when Mannering replaced the receiver he was much more thoughtful. He badly wanted to know who had advertised for the ring, and was tempted to make inquiries. Then he reminded himself that he was thinking as the Baron, not Mannering; if he was to keep faith with himself, he must take no action.
He had only partially convinced himself when the telephone rang, and his expression brightened when he heard Lorna’s voice.
“Is that you, darling?”
“Have you changed your mind about a show?” he asked.
“No.” He was quick to sense the note of urgency in her voice. “Can you come to dinner, after all? I think you’d better. It’s about—But have you seen the Wire?”
“So that’s got round,” said Mannering, sadly. “Yes, I’ve seen it, and I’ll be over in twenty minutes. Is the news good, bad or indifferent?”
“I don’t know yet,” said Lorna, “but the girl’s here, and there appears to be a complication. We’ll keep dinner till eight, so try not to be later.”
Chapter Two
Complications
Mannering pondered for some time over the fact that the Personal Column advertiser was to dine at the Fauntley’s house, of all places. It might prove a sheer coincidence, but he had no great faith in that.
Was it possible that the woman – he had begun to take the sex for granted, before Lorna’s ‘girl’, without pausing to ask why – had some idea of his identity? Had there been a leakage of information, leading her to Lorna for the purpose of making a more direct personal appeal?
The possibility worried him, but he tried to console himself with the probability that Lady Fauntley had been responsible for the visit. The peeress had a habit of dabbling in other folks’ affairs in a friendly and disingenuous manner which made it impossible to take offence. Many people had cause to be grateful for her interest.
Had he known all that was in her mind that day he would have been aghast!
It was nearly eighteen months since the Baron had saved Lord Fauntley from a catastrophic financial crash due to the operations of a stockbroker who no longer operated on the Exchange. At that time, Lady Fauntley had considered, in her quiet way, the remarkably convenient way in which Mannering had been able to forecast the actions of the Baron, and to benefit from them.
She was a little woman, turning grey and fading, yet not trying unduly to offset the passing of years. Above all, she was always natural. Mannering had a considerable regard for her, despite the fact that she was the unwitting stumbling block to a divorce for Lorna, and hence to his marriage.
In her short-sighted and absent-minded way – the absentmindedness perhaps more illusionary than real – she suspected Mannering’s dual identity, but probably because her husband owed his fortune and reputation to the Baron, it did not shock her. She nursed the belief to herself, confiding neither in her husband – who was at a Midlands political meeting that night – nor Lorna, but always smiling with quaint humour at the varied stories circulating about the Baron. Never had Mannering dreamed of her shrewd conclusions; that was a splendid testimony to Lady Fauntley’s power of dissimulation.
When she read the Personal
Column appeal, she suspected there was a mistake; Mannering could not have stolen the jewels from the Maycourt Hotel. The development worried her, however. She was not a client of Messrs. Alder & Claythorne, but that old-established and respectable firm handled the affairs of many of her friends.
Putting apparently innocent questions into a conversation over the telephone, she learned that the jewels had been stolen from the fiancé of one of last year’s debutantes, Marion Delray. She knew Marion; and she also knew that the girl was under the guardianship of an aunt, the widowed Mrs. Gertrude Willison.
Lady Fauntley did not number Mrs. Willison among her closer friends, but she had known Marion’s mother, and she liked the girl. That was sufficient justification for her to make further discreet inquiries. Although she had no proof, she felt sure Marion Delray was the advertiser.
Did Mrs. Willison know?
Lady Fauntley had telephoned the aunt, and invited her to dinner.
“And do bring that charming niece of yours, Gertrude—Annebel, isn’t it? but I really am so bad on names, I remember how charming she looked when she was presented, I’m sure she was the success of the evening, do if you can.”
“You mean Marion,” corrected Mrs. Willison. “Of course, and she will be delighted.”
“Well, that’s nice of her, and you, I’m sure. And Gertrude, did you see that astonishing advertisement in the papers this morning, so rare I thought, Hugo was saying it was so much money wasted, but I’m not sure—”
After ten minutes’ conversation she was satisfied that Gertrude Willison had no idea that her niece had arranged to insert the advertisement. That was puzzling, but it was possible that Mrs. Willison believed the girl’s fiancé was behind it. Lady Fauntley began to wonder about the fiancé who would allow his beloved to act in his place, but she was tolerably contented because Marion would be at dinner. Lorna would bring John the moment she knew who was coming; and it was strange how easy it was to understand Lorna, bless the child! Lorna had always preferred to be indifferent to the Baron, and yet obviously nervy and irritable when the Baron was busy.
If the poor girl really needed help, Mannering was just the man to supply it. Lady Fauntley had played her part, and she was content to leave the rest to the others.
If she was pleased with the results of her modest little plot and Gertrude Willison was delighted at the peeress’s interest in her ward, Marion Delray wished the peeress and her aunt to perdition, and was on tenterhooks all day.
Believing that there was considerable sentiment in the Baron’s make-up, she had put a great deal of hope in the appeal. The Baron’s reputation was widespread, and there were many who looked on him as a modern Robin Hood. She had appealed to him because the Sun had seemed so sure of the identity of the thief. Now she had to force thought of it to the back of her mind and play her part in the small talk at dinner. Small talk had never appealed to her, and with the suspense she was feeling dinner threatened to be an ordeal.
At seven o’clock, when she saw Lorna again – they had been acquainted for years – she realised that for once a dinner with her aunt was going to be a relief.
The peeress had dropped a quiet and cautious word to Lorna.
“Of course, her aunt doesn’t know about the advertisement, my dear, but I thought you would like to.”
Lorna, always jealous for Mannering, and in any case curious, had set herself to get Marion to talk. This was easy, for the girl had been bursting to confide in someone. Lorna’s manner was a perfect blend of concern and optimism, and the girl felt relieved and a little excited. John Mannering would be at dinner, and he had the reputation of being one of the most charming men in London. To cap it, Lorna had hinted that Mannering, as a jewel collector, might be able to help.
The situation was ripe for Mannering; and for the Baron.
If Marion Delray lacked the subtler intelligence of Lorna, the Baron nevertheless took to her. When trying to grapple with conversational gambits a little above her, her tense manner broke down occasionally with a merry and unaffected: “Of course, what an idiot I am! But don’t you think—?”
It was the same naivete that had shown itself in the ‘agony’ appeal.
She was fair, and her hair was dressed plainly, and a little carelessly. She used little make-up, but contrived to look fresh and vivid. A pair of blue, frank and admiring eyes were directed towards Mannering most of the dinner-time. In a year or two, thought Mannering, she would be really lovely; now, a month or two past her twenty-first birthday, she seemed little more than a school-girl. Poise and affectation were both missing, a refreshing change from the majority of her contemporaries.
If she were worried she contrived to hide it well, but Mannering watched her closely, waiting for the slightest sign that she was suspicious of his identity. Nothing happened to alarm him, but he found it difficult to concentrate on small talk. Luckily Lady Fauntley was in her most discursive mood.
Gertrude Willison wondered, a little guiltily, whether it was true that Mannering and Lorna were engaged, and if not, Marion might perhaps—
“I’m so sorry, John,” said Lady Fauntley, “that you’re the only man, two friends were coming and they had to back out, but you’re one of us, so you won’t feel out of place. Gertrude, don’t you think it would be an excellent idea if we sent the younger folk into the lounge while you come upstairs with me? I so want to talk about the Orphanage Ball, and your experience will be invaluable. Shall I tell Mason to send liqueurs in. John, you’ll have a brandy I suppose—?” She was like a contented hen as she fussed about them, and Marion Delray suspected that the ‘younger folk’ had been deliberately freed from the stiff, dry-faced and sharp-eyed Mrs. Willison.
As Marion sat in an easy chair, the Cambridge blue of her dress shinning in the subdued light of the lounge, her eyes were very bright. When Lorna poured coffee, Marion was tapping one high heel against the floor. That might have been from habit or from nervousness. Mannering sat opposite her, Lorna between them, on a pouffe.
“Well,” said Lorna practically, “I promised I’d let you talk to him, Marion, and now’s the chance. Yes, he knows about the advertisement, but nothing else. Black or white?” Marion eased herself up a little in the chair.
“Very white, please—well, it’s difficult, Mr. Mannering, I hardly know how to begin. It—you see—” She was playing with the fingers of her left hand, forgetting the coffee, and her voice dropped a little. “We were—are I mean—engaged.”
Mannering nodded and smiled, and passed her cup, waiting for an explanation of that nervous statement.
“Oh, thanks. Well, it’s rather a rotten thing to say, but I just daren’t keep things at home. Aunt sees them all. So when Brian bought the ring a month ago, and yet we still had to keep it secret because of Aunt Gertrude, he kept the ring, and I only wore it when I was with him. Not very often, I’m afraid, but usually three or four times a month. Brian travels about a lot, he’s a sales representative you see, that’s chiefly why Aunt doesn’t like him. He was at the Maycourt just that one night, and the Baron—”
Mannering broke in.
“Why are you so sure that it was the Baron?”
“Well, I don’t know now. I read the Sun—I happened to pick up last Saturday’s paper yesterday morning—and I thought it was worth a chance. Anyhow, the thief might read it even if it wasn’t the Baron, and—” she broke off, stirring her coffee too quickly. “I half wish now that I hadn’t advertised. I’m afraid Aunt Gertrude might find it was me, but I did it on the spur of the moment. Brian rang up to say he’d been sent to Cornwall, and I was afraid to wait until he came back. Do you seriously think there’s a way of getting the ring back, Mr. Mannering? I—I feel so badly about it. Brian spent more than he could really afford on it, and—”
“There’s always a chance,” said Mannering, “especially with a small ring where the stone would not need cutting before it was re-sold. Would Brian—or Mr.—?”
“Halliwell.”
&n
bsp; “—be able to get particulars from the jeweller he bought it from, do you think?”
“I expect he’d have details himself, as he’s in the trade. But I don’t like worrying him, he’s dreadfully upset by the whole thing. You see the other jewels weren’t his. He travels for Kingley’s, and he should really have taken the stones to the shop, but he met a friend, and he only left them in the hotel bedroom for half an hour. It wasn’t until he reached Kingley’s that he discovered the case was empty. Mr. Kingley’s a pretty decent sort—but—well, Brian feels badly about it. Besides, there are the other directors, and if they think the loss was due to his carelessness, it will mean that he loses the job with Kingley’s. It would make a big difference to us.”
Mannering was filling in the gaps as she went along. She was trying to be loyal to Aunt Gertrude, and obviously hedging at some points, but in the main the story was straightforward.
Brian Halliwell had been fool enough to leave two or three thousand pounds’-worth of jewels in an hotel bedroom, and as a result of the loss he would almost certainly be dismissed. Kingley’s were an old firm, but they would not risk employing careless representatives. If young Halliwell lost his job, it would probably mean a long time before he and Marion could think of marrying. Mrs. Willison was already set firmly against the match, and would be worse if Halliwell had no income; and judging from the story, he depended entirely on his work for his income.
It flashed through Mannering’s mind that there might be more in it than appeared on the surface. Halliwell might have concocted the story. The police would be quick to see that possibility though, and would not have allowed him to go so far from London. If Halliwell was in Cornwall, the police must be satisfied of his innocence.
Could he help? Mannering wondered.
Unless by chance Leverson or another fence had the solitaire ring through his hands, there seemed little chance of getting it back. He disliked telling Marion so, however, and a thought occurred to him.
“Was your ring with a parcel of others?”
