by John Creasey
“Theodore Greene, of independent means, is well known in Mayfair and is a member of the Services Club. He was slightly injured in a scuffle with the guards employed to guard Mr. Eldred’s priceless collection of precious stones, in a strong-room that had been considered impregnable—”
Mannering was smiling in earnest as he read the hotch-potch of fiction and fact. If Greene had refused to talk at River House, when he must have been dazed and bewildered, he would hold out now. There was just the possibility that the police were playing a crafty game, and that the crook had talked: but Mannering was confident that if they had the photograph – the one thing that could incriminate him, it would have been published.
He turned the paper over, looking for the stop press. The Wire was one of those annoying dailies that squeezed its late news anywhere, and he found it at the bottom of the sports page. It was headed:
“STAINES ROBBERY—LATEST”
And then the Baron stared down, his eyes very narrow, his fingers gripping the paper tightly.
“The Wire understands that Scotland Yard connect the robbery at Staines with the robbery at Hampstead, in which Mr. Matthew Kingley was murdered. Greene will be charged at Bow Street this morning.”
Mannering read the paragraph twice, the second time very slowly. As he reached for a cigarette, his hand was unsteady. Only evidence of arrest was given, but if Greene did know Halliwell and the police proved an association, it might lead anywhere.
Chapter Twenty-Two
Cross-Talk
Just after nine, Mannering’s head was feeling easier, and he breakfasted well. As he pondered the position he knew that he had no alibi at all. Because of the Halliwell connection he expected the police would by now be at his flat. Bristow always called there when the Baron had been busy, but so far he had never been able to present anything in the way of irrefutable evidence. He might be able to do so this time.
Several ideas were in Mannering’s mind. With his padded shoulders, his hair convincingly greyed, and walking with a slight stoop, he left the house in Barnes just before ten, telling Mrs. Lloyd that he expected to be back about midday, and asking her to pack clothes for him for a month’s spell in the country. If the worst came to the worst he would have to run for it: at least it was reasonably certain that he had nothing to fear at Barnes.
He took the Morris out of the garage and drove it to a corner of Wimbledon Common, some seven miles away. He left it, reasonably certain that it would not be found until he was able to return: he did not want to chance using it in case the police had traced its number and association with the Staines robbery. It was possible that his description would be on the police lookout list, and the garage-hand at Lunes might recognise it.
Mannering’s senses were more alert than ever they had been. Every possible slip was covered, yet there was plenty to do to make sure of his present safety.
He wanted to telephone Lorna, but calls to Portland Place might be tapped by the police. It was equally possible, but not as dangerous, that Leverson’s telephone line would be tapped. From a call-box near Putney Station he called the fence.
Leverson’s calm voice answered him promptly.
“Hallo, Flick,” Mannering sounded as confident as ever.
“Hal-lo.” Leverson mentioned no names, but that merely meant that he was being extra cautious. “You’ve seen the reports?”
“One, and it seemed plenty.”
“I haven’t been able to find much,” said Leverson, who had a surprising number of contacts, and was usually up-to-date with any developments of the police. “Greene hasn’t talked, that’s certain.”
Mannering grew appreciably more cheerful.
“Fine, what else?”
“The Cat’s been through: she’s had no trouble, and Greene doesn’t seem to have mentioned her. He’s probably waiting on Kulper, and that means he’s also waiting on you. And” – Leverson spoke slowly – “it looks as though he’s afraid the capital charge might touch him. You can reckon he’s safe until you’ve had word with him.”
“How?” asked Mannering.
“Greene sent for Kollis,” said Leverson, “and there isn’t a better lawyer for the job. If you talk to Kollis word’ll get to Greene and you’ll be reasonably safe. I’d try that.”
“I will,” promised Mannering. “Do you know if Bristow has been round to Clarges Street?”
“He can’t have been, and nor can Lynch. They’ve been with the river police. One of the dinghies was found this morning, and Lynch and Bristow didn’t get back to the Yard until nine o’clock. I know Bristow went home. There’s a special court at Bow Street at half-past twelve.”
“Changing their methods,” murmured the Baron. “I wonder if they think they’ve got me?”
“They can think,” said Leverson with a chuckle. “What have you got in mind?”
“We-ell—I need an alibi.”
“Can I help?”
“Better not I think. I ought to get someone respectable to perjure themselves for me if necessary. Unless I can bluff Bristow—there’s a chance of that.”
“Be careful all the way,” warned Leverson.
“I will. But they’ve got nothing definite or they’d have tried to use it, and word would have reached you. Going to Bow Street?”
“I am not!” exclaimed Leverson. “Now look here, Mannering—”
Mannering was smiling grimly and without humour.
“Seeing that it’s linked up with the Halliwell job, I think I’d be a fool to stay away, it’d look worse than if I go. I’ll be in good company, too.”
“Who?” Leverson sounded resigned.
“Plender, and perhaps Hackett, if I can drag him out. How’s Kulper?”
“Conscious but saying nothing. He’s all right. I’ve sent a man round to be with him, in case he tries to bribe Benny. Benny’s trouble is money, but he’ll be all right if he doesn’t get too close to temptation. And he won’t do anything for the police, that’s certain. Will you come to see Kulper, later?”
“Yes,” said Mannering, “I’ll ring when I’m coming.”
He told Leverson what he had done with the cars, and Leverson laughed as he rang down. Then Mannering left the call-box and booked for Waterloo, catching a train from Putney Station after a five minutes wait. He booked first class, and between Putney and Clapham Junction – the train did not stop at two intermediate stations – he worked as fast as he had ever done in his life. The padding from his coat went out onto the line, he rubbed his hair to get rid of the grey, and wiped the grease-paint off his face with a handkerchief damped in spirit. No one entered the carriage at Clapham Junction, and he had an undisturbed run. It was John Mannering who left the train at Waterloo, and not Mr. Miller.
Mannering was on the look-out all the time. Staines trains ran into Waterloo, and it was possible that the police would be watching. He saw two detectives from the Yard, but they were by the main Portsmouth platform, and he did not think they were looking for the Baron. A quick walk to the centre of the station took him to the cab-stand, and he told a driver to get to Clarges Street. No cab followed him, and when he reached the street there was none of Bristow’s men in sight.
Mannering paid off the cab thoughtfully.
He did not think he had been followed, and it would be impossible for the police to trace his movements from Barnes, unless they knew Mr. Miller.
He was a little worried by the apparent change in Bristow’s methods. Bristow was a routine expert and a man who believed that patience could succeed where brilliance could fail. Whenever the Baron had been busy in the past, the morning had found Bristow at Mannering’s flat, dogmatic and persistent.
Was this change of method forced because Bristow had been first too busy and then too weary? Or was there something stranger behind it? The Baron was inclined to think the latter, and he went to the lift warily.
No one followed him, and there was no sign of a watcher in the corridor. He turned the key in the door of his
flat and pushed it slowly.
His left hand was in his pocket, but he carried no weapon. He wished that he could have had his gas-pistol, but he had left it at Barnes: to have carried incriminating evidence with Bristow in the offing would have been madness. He hardly knew why he felt so tense and worried, and was on the alert, almost afraid of what he would find inside the flat.
He saw Lorna a moment later, and smiled from sheer relief. He had found her at the flat before when he had been afraid of Bristow, for she had a key; but it did not alter the depth of his relief.
She saw it in his wide smile and the lift of his head, and as she smiled back she sent a silent message of warning, a half-turn of her head towards the right.
Mannering stepped in, and saw Peter Lake and Marion Delray.
His smile widened as he waved to them, and Marion, sitting in an easy chair, started to get up.
“John, I’m sorry but—”
“Easy goes,” smiled the Baron. “You’re worried about Bow Street this morning, but there isn’t any need.” He laughed into the girl’s anxious eyes, and she forced a smile, reluctant and yet hopeful. Lake chuckled, without getting up from a settee.
“Sorry we ambushed you, John, but blame Lorna, she said she thought she had a key. Been looking for you since eight o’clock.” His bright eyes searched Mannering’s, but the Baron was feeling capable of tackling any new developments.
“Lorna ought to know better,” he retorted, “I never get home until ten. I’ve been busy; and I think I’ve got something useful.”
“John—” it was Marion again.
“Steady,” said Mannering, “it’s a long way from certain. But I can assure you that Greene is one of the men behind the Kingley murder, and he’s an acquaintance of your Brian. Whether Brian knows him well, or they’ve just met once or twice I don’t know. I’ll have a word with Plender, and Brian won’t say anything foolish, I promise you.”
“But will Greene?” Marion was sitting upright, Lorna was leaning back and watching: and, the Baron knew, she was thinking hard, wondering how he had escaped the previous night, and what he had found. From the moment of reading the papers she would have been tormented with a dread that the Baron had made his first and final serious mistake. His manner relieved her.
“Well—” Mannering sat on the corner of a table swinging his leg. “I don’t know Greene, but I imagine he will keep very quiet until he knows how he stands with the murder case. The hearing this morning will be a formal one, by shock tactics. Peter, will you take Marion along to Bow Street? I’ll be in later.”
“Right.” Peter jumped up with alacrity. Marion moved almost reluctantly, but they left the flat together five minutes after Mannering had entered. Lorna stepped to him as the door closed, and her arms were very tight about him.
“Is it dangerous?”
She was very near him, and he could see her smooth, flawless skin, the clearness of her grey eyes, and their anxiety. He kissed her.
“It’s touch and go I think, but I’ve known worse. You’d probably be jealous if you knew all that happened last night, but don’t worry.” Chuckling he stepped to the telephone, dialled a number quickly, and a few seconds afterwards heard Toby Plender’s dry voice.
“’Morning, Toby.”
“What, are you up already?” demanded the solicitor. “I’ve tried to get you—”
“A dozen times, I can guess. The special court’s for twelve-thirty, isn’t it? You know the connection with our client?”
“Ours? You get to know things, don’t you?”
“Who’s up?”
“Goring, there’s nothing to worry about there.”
“Good,” said Mannering. Goring was one of the older Metropolitan magistrates, who did not believe it necessary to help the police by unnecessary interrogation. “Can Hackett get there?”
“I doubt it, but I’ll ask him. Why?”
“I’d like to let ’em see we’re watching,” said Mannering.
“All very well,” grumbled Plender. “But Halliwell says he does know Greene. He’s one of a little clique that he’s been with a lot on these damned Mayfair parties. A man named Jackson is another of them. Halliwell doesn’t seem happy when he talks of Jackson and he told me you knew all about it. Playing with fire again, my son?”
“Well, it’s nice to be warm, and Halliwell isn’t the first young idiot to live too high.” Mannering rubbed his chin. “Can you see him this morning?”
“Yes, of course.”
“Tell him to stick to the truth. He’s met Greene socially and that’s all. Greene won’t talk, I assure you.”
“You seem to know too much,” complained Plender. “How the devil can I work when I’m half in the dark?”
“Keep trying,” said Mannering, “and tell me one thing. Does it seem feasible that Greene’s an accomplice of the Baron’s?”
“No.” Plender rarely hesitated to give an opinion.
“No indeed,” agreed Mannering warmly. “Pass this on to Bristow, Toby, if you get half a chance. Tell him that the whole affair at Staines looks like a put-up job, to make it appear as though this series of jewel robberies is the Baron’s. Suggest that Greene was left there to hold the baby, and it was known the Baron—or the man supposed to be the Baron—would escape.”
Plender hesitated, and Mannering could imagine the way his chin was waggling to and fro.
“But how the devil do you get all this information?”
“Leverson gets to know a lot, too,” said Mannering.
“All right,” said Plender, and rang down abruptly.
The solicitor was not happy about the source of information, Mannering knew, but that mention of Leverson served to explain how Mannering had found the theories without making Plender too thoughtful. Lorna was smiling as Mannering turned round, and she seemed more confident.
“Weren’t you there last night?”
“I was, but it will be a pretty little joke if we can get Bristow to believe someone else was in my place,” said the Baron cheerfully. “Bill will be as worried as a cat with nine kittens now, but we’ve still got a lot to do. Ready?”
“And waiting.”
At the nearest call box Mannering squeezed in with Lorna, and called the number of Harvey Kollis, Greene’s solicitor. He learned, as he had half expected, that Kollis was already at Bow Street, and decided to call him there. The idea of the Baron talking to a criminal lawyer, giving him instructions on the behaviour of a client occurred to Mannering as irony to perfection, and he passed the joke on. They were laughing when a harsh voice came along the wire, and Mannering had to stifle his outburst.
“Hallo there, who is it?” The voice of the speaker seemed testy.
“Never mind,” said Mannering. “Is that Mr. Kollis?”
Lorna had a shock. It was not Mannering’s voice: the cadence and the timbre seemed different, and Mannering’s expression seemed to be part of it.
“Speaking.” Kollis sounded less harsh now.
“Thank you. A word about your client at the special court and elsewhere, Mr. Kollis. Absolute silence on his part is necessary. He knows Halliwell, but only as an acquaintance. Is that understood?”
“Who—?” began Kollis, but Mannering cut in quickly.
“Tell him Kull rang up.”
Mannering closed the receiver, and left the kiosk quickly. He believed Kollis would pass the message on, that Greene would believe Kulper was free and making plans. A great deal depended on Greene’s actions, but the Baron believed that the emergency would be over by one o’clock.
At twelve twenty-five a taxi turned into Bow Street. Mannering and Lorna reached the public court as Theodore Greene came into the dock.
Greene looked as though he had been in the wars.
There was a bruise on the side of his jaw, where Mannering had hit him, and his forehead was bandaged, probably after the crack against the wall. The court was crowded – only Mannering’s request to see Toby Plender on urgent business had
enabled him to get through – and there was a murmur of excitement, as the prisoner came in. The Press, with the knowledge that the Baron was concerned, was crowded, the better-known crime-reporters were busy. Mayfair was liberally represented; and for the first time Mannering was able to see the reactions of a collection of people to the Baron. For the most part it was of tense interest: whether they wanted him caught or not he could not tell.
Ten minutes later he was aware of two things.
First, relief that everything had gone through as he had expected. Only formal evidence of arrest was given, and Greene was remanded for eight days. Bristow made the application for the police, and Goring offered no objections.
The second thing Mannering knew was that the court was disappointed. There had been nothing sensational in the evidence, and the name of the Baron had been mentioned only once. The police needed time to work, as well as the Baron.
Lorna pressed his arm.
“Pretty well what you wanted?”
“Exactly what I wanted,” smiled Mannering in high fettle. “Bristow’s seen me, and he looked surprised: he probably thought I was drowned by now. I think I’ll go and see Plender. Hackett didn’t turn up with his protest, but that doesn’t matter. I—”
Mannering half-turned, and then stopped suddenly. Lorna saw his face go pale, saw his lips tighten. She asked no questions as a little man in front of them pushed his way through the crowd, as though in a great hurry to get out. She saw the man’s one eye, and the livid scar, but she did not know that his name was Kulper, and that he should have been in safe keeping at the Unicorn, Aldgate.
Chapter Twenty-Three
Ultimatum
Bristow, stepping across the emptying court towards Mannering, saw the Baron standing very still and staring into the crowd, his lips tightly compressed. What it meant Bristow did not know, but he suspected there had been a shock for Mannering.
