by John Creasey
“I lost control round the corner, and had to step on it. All right, Sergeant, here’s my card, and that’s broken seven years’ record. I’ll phone a garage for a breakdown gang.”
The sergeant had other things to say, however, and Mannering departed, arranging to meet Lake at the house as soon as he was clear of formalities.
He thought, ruefully, that he was completely out of luck. Although Lake had been given a quarter of an hour’s start it was Mannering who would have to talk to Marion. Bristow, earlier in the day, had left an equally unwanted task to him.
The two women had not returned from the shopping expedition, although it was half-past five. Mannering called up Toby Plender’s office, and was lucky to find his friend in. Plender undertook to look after Halliwell, and promised to get to the Yard at once.
“But I can’t say I like his chances,” the solicitor admitted.
Mannering knew that was the opinion of ninety-nine people in a hundred.
“You’re guessing badly, Toby. There’s a good case for Halliwell, although it’s not so plain as the one against him. You go and look after him now, and I’ll come round to dinner for a chat—if you and Mary are not booked.”
“We were going to see Balalaika, but we’ll put it off. Bringing Lorna?”
“I think I’ll make it alone this time,” said Mannering. “But if Mary’s free, why doesn’t she slip round to Lorna’s? The trouble is Halliwell’s girl: we’ve got her here.”
“Getting quite a gallant, aren’t you?” demanded Toby with some sarcasm, but he laughed. “All right, old man, it’s fixed. Eight o’clock?”
“To the minute,” promised Mannering.
When Peter returned, half an hour afterwards, he had fully recovered his good temper. Apparently just such a turn as had nearly upset them near Renman’s Hotel had been forced at the corner, and the girl had run across the road from her nurse. Lake had smashed into the wall rather than the child, and suffered no more than a few bruises.
“Try being careful,” suggested Mannering. “Marion and Lorna should be back any time, and I want to get out. Marion will want to rush round to the Yard, but keep her back until half-past six, will you? And tell Lorna, not Marion, about the gas. She’ll pass it on.”
“In short, I don’t get marks for tact,” grimaced Lake. “If you’re not careful with this protégée of yours, you’ll have Lorna jealous, and Jackson on your tail. I—What’s the trouble?”
Mannering’s expression had gone suddenly hard, and he stared at Peter Lake.
“Did you say Jackson?”
“Yes, why?”
“Who is the gentleman?”
“A friend of the family’s, but an effeminate lout. A bit smitten on Marion, although she’s never been more than sisterly towards him.”
Lake was looking curious, and Mannering changed his tone diplomatically.
“Seems too young for the man I’ve got in mind. Where does he live?”
“Out Barnet way.”
“Not my man,” lied Mannering, inwardly exulting, “he’s from Chelsea. There’s a suspicion that he put something over Kingley’s a few months back, and I’d been wondering if young Halliwell was in the middle of a pretty plot, but it doesn’t look likely from that angle. You’ll do just as I suggest with Marion?”
“Trust me,” said Peter cheerfully, “but the Lord knows what storms I’ll call down on my head at home. Marion’s caused it, and—” he shrugged his shoulders phlegmatically.
“I’ll manage. Off hunting somewhere?”
“I’d like to have a word with the police,” said Mannering.
“Lucky dog. Get them to forget that little affair at the corner if you can, will you?”
“And stop you getting a sharp lesson? Not if I know it!” Mannering smiled. “I’ll see if I can get an introduction to the Divisional Super, he might take a lenient view. So long.”
It had been a hard job to keep flippant after Lake had dropped that bomb about Jackson, for it opened an entirely new avenue for investigation. Jackson, Christian name unknown, was a rejected suitor of Marion Delray’s; and the said Jackson was a ‘friend’ of Brian Halliwell’s.
At the time when Mannering was at his flat and making inquiries by telephone about Jackson, of Byways, Barnet, the ‘effeminate lout’ was in a small room on a floor above a billiard saloon in the Mile End Road.
Jackson was sitting in the middle of a trio facing a small desk, and opposite a man sitting with his elbows propped up against it. Every time Jackson looked at the face, he felt sick; he was a man with an exaggerated sense of his own asceticism.
The man was no larger than Matthew Kingley had been, standing less than five-feet-six. One side of his face was normal enough, but the other side was a mess of purple, the result of a severe burn, and the left eye was permanently closed and sunken. The stiffness of the face, because of the disfigurement, gave him a grotesque appearance.
Only the right part of his mouth moved when he spoke, and he was talking slowly, like an automaton.
“So now that Loffatt and Barkas have gone, we have no one available for opening safes, gentlemen. It is unfortunate, but perhaps you have some suggestions?”
He had moved his head stiffly to look at each man in turn. His gaze seemed to rest longer on Jackson than either of the others, and Jackson stirred uncomfortably. He had a long, olive-tinted and womanish face, more often found in a Spaniard or an Italian than an Englishman. His looks were, in their way, perfect, with full, sensitive lips, the nose with its wide nostrils, eyes that were dark and fringed with lashes sweeping his olive cheeks. His forehead was broad and smooth, the hair sweeping back in dark waves. He was bigger than the man at the desk, yet small-boned. Long, sensitive fingers were clasped about his right knee.
“Well, Jackson?”
“Look here, Kulper, isn’t it time you picked on the others? I’ve done more than enough in the past couple of days, a great deal more.” Jackson’s voice was deep and thick.
Kulper shrugged his shoulders.
“A matter of opinion, Jackson. You are always so full of ideas that I naturally looked to you.” There was a sting of sarcasm in his otherwise expressionless voice. “What about you, Greene?”
Greene, on Jackson’s right, was a plump, florid, middle-aged man, with a sharp, decisive voice.
“Count me out, fella, that’s not my angle.”
“It would be useful,” said Kulper, “if you would all help a little more towards the common cause, instead of leaving the thin king to myself and others. McLeish?”
The third man, taller than Greene, bony and sandy-skinned,, looked his nationality and spoke with an unmistakable accent.
“Aweel, Kulper, I’m not so sure we shouldna’ be satisfied for a while. Things are getting hot, almost too hot.”
Kulper lifted his hands slowly. The fingers were small, the skin dry and wizened.
“Very little help from any of you, then. I have observed that you are not so reluctant to claim your share of the proceeds. Do you know, gentlemen, that there are five of us, and others whom we have used, like Loffatt and Barkas, yet a single man has met with ten times the success—one man alone, working without help or assistance? Or perhaps none of you read the personal columns, and did not see the mention of his name?”
Greene, who had something in common with Jake Rummell, laughed explosively, but defensively.
“You mean the Baron? Cut it out, Kulper, that’s a different kettle of fish altogether. The man’s a specialist.”
“There seems no reason why we should not all be specialists. But we are simply wasting time, we can get no further this way. I wonder if I can inspire you to higher ideals.” The sarcasm was still there, and the voice grew a little thinner. “Walloby’s sold a hundred thousands pounds’ worth of new stones this morning, to Emmanuel Eldred, of Staines. Eldred has been buying for months, and I have been unable to trace-any bank deposit holding his collection. He keeps either all or a large proportion at his river
house.”
Greene no longer looked amused, and his red face grew crafty and indignant.
“Cut it out, Kulper. Eldred’s turned that place into a fort, you ought to know it. Employs three guards, all armed. He built a special underground room for his stuff—it’d be easier to get the Crown Jewels than Eldred’s stuff. Have some sense.”
Kulper’s single eye was sparkling.
“How courageous we all are,” and there was an insult in the words. “Eldred must have one of the biggest collections of jewels in England and we—we leave such an opportunity to the Baron.”
Greene stood up abruptly, like a man who was not going to be brow-beaten.
“If you’re so fond of the beggar, why don’t you get hold of him? What do you ever do but talk, anyway?”
“Organise,” said Kulper softly. “Organise so that you and Jackson and McLeish get a comfortable living for doing very little that is dangerous.”
Jackson choked.
“Little!”
Kulper flashed round on him.
“For the first time you have been used in the open, Jackson, and that because you had a particular interest in the affair. My own arrangements for the stuff to be planted in Halliwell’s rooms were far more dangerous. Your brother, Greene, made an excellent entry there, and I played my part as an old woman who needed a policeman’s help to get through. Had I been able to trust anyone else I would have done so. As it was, Greene only just managed to escape, in a cab that I had waiting for him. I am not afraid to work; and you would be wiser not to boast.”
“I can do what I like,” snapped Jackson, his sensitive lips trembling. “If Halliwell talks, where am I? Standing a good chance of hanging, damn you! If I’d known you were going to kill Kingley—”
“I have told you before, I did not kill Kingley.”
“No? Then who did?”
“Halliwell—”
“Oh, bosh!” snapped Jackson. “I don’t believe he’d have the guts. I—”
“We’re getting nowhere,” said Kulper decisively. “Remember, all of you, that we shall shortly be trying to get into Eldred’s house, and once we have succeeded we can retire. Just as I fear the Baron has retired, or I would certainly try to get in touch with him. The man has genius—and courage. Both are needed for some things—gentlemen.”
Kulper slipped from his chair as he slurred the last word. He looked absurdly short, perhaps because Greene and McLeish appeared to be so abnormally tall as they followed his example. Jackson remained seated.
“Leave one at a time, please. Jackson, you and McLeish had best play downstairs for half an hour. Greene can follow me in five minutes. I will send further messages in the usual way.”
He opened the door abruptly, and left the trio together. There was a moment of silence, and then Jackson spoke excitedly.
“If we’re not damned careful, he’ll have us all in jail, while he’s scot free. I think it’s past time we left him.”
Greene was biting his thick lips nervously.
“I’m with you there, if we can, but the man’ll be dangerous.”
“Well, perhaps you’re right,” said McLeish cautiously, “but there’s nae doot of the money we can collect if we stay with him a wee while longer. It has shown good results, ye must admit that.”
“I’m not taking part in anything at Staines,” blustered Greene.
“And I’m tired of it all,” said Jackson, lighting a match viciously. “It’s getting too dangerous. I tell you if Halliwell talks of the part I played last night, it might get me hanged. I’ll bet the liar killed Kingley.”
“You’re worrying yoursel’ needlessly,” said McLeish; “it was Halliwell, and certain as can be. We’ll be getting downstairs, Clive. After we’ve played a hundred up, where will ye be going?”
“I’m seeing Rene,” Jackson said, still scowling.
“Och, an’ you’ve been wanting Halliwell away to get at Marion Delray,” said McLeish with a thin-lipped smile. “There’s no telling what ye’ll do next, Clive. We’ll be seeing you, Greene.”
Greene shook hands with them both, his fingers flabby and his palm warm, and left the room without another word. Jackson and McLeish went downstairs, played their half-hour of billiards, thus showing their belief in the wisdom of obeying Kulper. Then Jackson phoned his home to say that he would not be in for dinner, and he expected to get back late.
Some half an hour afterwards a maid at Byways, Barnet, told John Mannering that Mr. Clive Jackson was not expected back until one or two o’clock, and that Mr. and Mrs. Jackson were away from home. Could she leave a message?
“No, thanks,” said Mannering, “I’ll call again.”
He did not add that he proposed to call in person, between ten and eleven o’clock, and if his plans went well no one would know he had been. He was hoping that a search of Jackson’s room would be informative, for he had taken a violent dislike to the man he had never seen.
He would go as the Baron.
He had learned that the Jackson family was wealthy: no one would be surprised at a visit of the Baron to Byways, but ‘friend’ Jackson might think seriously if his room was burgled, and nowhere else in the house was touched. If he found anything to take from Jackson’s room he would need to look at the other rooms afterwards. Mannering was seeing all the possibilities quietly and comprehensively, for the Baron was back.
Chapter Eleven
The Baron Breaks In
Byways, Nelson Street, Barnet, was one of a dozen similar houses built in a quiet back street of one of London’s residential suburbs in the days when it had not been linked up with the Metropolis, and consequently there had been ground to spare. It had about an acre of its own, and it stood well back from the road. When Mannering passed it in an Austin Ten, at half-past nine that evening, only three lights were burning: one at the back of the house, the reflection of which he could see, the others on the top, and probably third floor. There was no light in the porch, which suggested that the Jackson family had taught their servants to be economical with electric power.
When Mannering was working as the Baron he always used a car that would not be easily identified – as, for instance, his Lancia. He preferred not to appear ostentatious in any way, for on small things success depended.
He had been busy since telephoning the house earlier in the evening.
A visit to the Yard had found Halliwell tired but patient. Toby Blender had already seen him, and Halliwell – who was under arrest – was about to be taken to Cannon Row for the night. Marion had been allowed five minutes alone with him, not knowing that a sergeant had heard the whole of a harmless conversation. Mannering had dined with the Plenders, and shortly after the solicitor’s wife had gone to Portland Place had called Plender’s curses on his head by remembering an engagement. He had promised to be back at Plender’s Mayfair flat by half-past ten, and departed, leaving the solicitor in an easy chair and with all the pertinent points of the case to ponder.
Mannering himself had managed to get a three-minute talk with Halliwell, chiefly because he was known as a friend of Bristow’s. In the course of the talk he had learned that Jackson lived with his parents, had a bedroom and sitting-room of his own on the first floor of Byways, and appeared to be very comfortably off. Byways had been described as: “just an ordinary place, Mannering, about a dozen rooms in all, nothing special. Old man Jackson keeps a good claret.”
Now, with the Baron’s kit in a small case in the rear of the Austin, and with a make-up that differed very little from that of Mr. Miller of Barnes, Mannering drove past Byways several times, and made sure that no other lights went on. At that time of night and with none of the family in the house, the servants were probably taking it easy in the kitchen or in their own rooms.
Satisfied that it was a good moment for breaking in, Mannering parked the Austin in a side road a hundred yards from Byways, leaving the side and rear lights on. He took the Baron’s materials from the case, wrapping most of the tool
s in a canvas strip about his waist. He had not brought a full outfit, for he scarcely imagined Byways would prove a difficult proposition.
In his pocket was the blue silk scarf that he always used as a mask. He rarely put it on until he was inside a house, and he did not propose to make any exception this time. He was keyed up for the job, and he was more than ever convinced of the wisdom of it: to tell Bristow about Jackson might have had a good effect, but more likely Jackson would have an excellent alibi, particularly if he was the driving force behind the Kingley crime, and Loffatt and Micky the Wisk. The police inquiries would then be fruitless, suspicion deepening about Halliwell. In all likelihood Jackson would deny having seen Halliwell on the night of the murder, or the following morning.
The more he considered the position, the more Mannering was convinced it would damage Halliwell’s cause rather than help it if he left the interrogation to the police, while Jackson might have the humour to appreciate the irony of a visit from the Baron.
Mannering walked sharply along the ill-lighted street.
On the far side of the road lights were blazing from all the windows of a house, and light strains of music were coming across the road. Mannering was not sure whether to bless or curse it. The sound would prevent others from hearing him, but it would also make it difficult for him to hear the sound of approach. He would be alert for sounds, others would be taken by surprise, and the music would probably be more of a disadvantage than anything else.
He felt a little uncertain, a little uneasy, ready to snap.
Always before he had possessed a definite object when breaking into a house, something to take, a prize worth gaining which he knew had been there. Now he might find nothing of value and the whole angle might prove a false lead.
Halliwell was unpleasantly close to the charge of murder; and Marion Delray—
Mannering turned into the short drive. The gates were open, and he soon reached the grass verge, making no sound as he hurried towards the house.
On one side, away from the lights at the top, there was a shrubbery that looked promising for his purpose. The night was pitch-dark, apart from the glow behind him, but his eyes soon grew accustomed to the gloom, and he reached the windows quickly.
