by John Creasey
Copyright & Information
Reward for the Baron
First published in 1945
© John Creasey Literary Management Ltd.; House of Stratus 1945-2014
All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted, in any form, or by any means (electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise), without the prior permission of the publisher. Any person who does any unauthorised act in relation to this publication may be liable to criminal prosecution and civil claims for damages.
The right of John Creasey to be identified as the author of this work has been asserted.
This edition published in 2014 by House of Stratus, an imprint of
Stratus Books Ltd., Lisandra House, Fore Street, Looe,
Cornwall, PL13 1AD, UK.
Typeset by House of Stratus.
A catalogue record for this book is available from the British Library and the Library of Congress.
EAN ISBN Edition
0755136233 9780755136230 Print
0755139569 9780755139569 Kindle
0755137906 9780755137909 Epub
0755153804 9780755153800 Epdf
This is a fictional work and all characters are drawn from the author’s imagination.
Any resemblance or similarities to persons either living or dead are entirely coincidental.
www.houseofstratus.com
About the Author
John Creasey – Master Storyteller - was born in Surrey, England in 1908 into a poor family in which there were nine children, John Creasey grew up to be a true master story teller and international sensation. His more than 600 crime, mystery and thriller titles have now sold 80 million copies in 25 languages. These include many popular series such as Gideon of Scotland Yard, The Toff, Dr Palfrey and The Baron.
Creasey wrote under many pseudonyms, explaining that booksellers had complained he totally dominated the ‘C’ section in stores. They included:
Gordon Ashe, M E Cooke, Norman Deane, Robert Caine Frazer, Patrick Gill, Michael Halliday, Charles Hogarth, Brian Hope, Colin Hughes, Kyle Hunt, Abel Mann, Peter Manton, J J Marric, Richard Martin, Rodney Mattheson, Anthony Morton and Jeremy York.
Never one to sit still, Creasey had a strong social conscience, and stood for Parliament several times, along with founding the One Party Alliance which promoted the idea of government by a coalition of the best minds from across the political spectrum.
He also founded the British Crime Writers’ Association, which to this day celebrates outstanding crime writing. The Mystery Writers of America bestowed upon him the Edgar Award for best novel and then in 1969 the ultimate Grand Master Award. John Creasey’s stories are as compelling today as ever.
Chapter One
The High Wind
A high wind blew off the sea, causing consternation among the holiday-makers in the summer bungalows of the West Shore. Even the fisherfolk, more solidly housed in their granite cottages, grew uneasy.
Waves rose like angry beasts and smashed into the groynes, reared across the promenade and struck the shops and houses with deafening roars. Traffic was diverted, and when darkness fell, anxious folk gathered at flood danger points. Houses near the sea, some already a foot deep in water, were beginning to be evacuated.
There was little rest for the police or for the local authorities. Larmouth natives said with gloomy satisfaction that it was the worst September gale for a decade. Holiday-makers, who made up three-quarters of the town’s population during the season – and the season had been extended into September that year – derived no comfort from these memories. Even the wealthy, the pampered and the spoiled, safely ensconced in the Royal Hotel, bemoaned their fate and went to bed, declaring that they would not get a wink of sleep.
Mannering stood up and stretched. But for three young couples, stubbornly watching from the verandah, he and his wife appeared to be the only hotel guests now awake. Tall, and well-built, he stepped across the fireplace and held out his hands to her.
“Bed-time, I think.”
“Oh, we’ll never sleep,” said Lorna, mimicking those who had gone before. She also, was tall, and in repose, her dark beauty could look almost forbidding. Now, however, she was laughing.
“Well, it’s after midnight. Time for all good citizens to be abed,” chanted her husband.
“A walk might be rather exhilarating, don’t you think?” suggested Lorna perversely.
“Not on your life!” Mannering moved to the door. “Only a fool—”
He broke off, swept aside by the six young people, now clad in raincoats or oilskins, racing excitedly towards the front doors.
“There go six fools,” said Lorna lightly. “This is probably the highlight of their holiday.”
“What’s the highlight of ours?” asked Mannering, as they walked up the wide staircase. “I hoped to see Dell’s collection, but he hasn’t even answered my letter.”
“So bored?” asked Lorna.
“A little restless to get back to the hurly-burly, perhaps.”
“After two months in bed and a month’s convalescence, I suppose I should expect that.”
“It’s a long time to be out of circulation,” said Mannering virtuously. “I really ought to see how things are going at the shop.”
“I sometimes wish you’d never bought Quinns,” said Lorna. “But buying and selling antiques and objets d’art does keep you out of worse mischief, I suppose.”
They turned into their room, and the sleepy pauses between their desultory chatting, getting longer and longer.
Soon, they were asleep.
During the night, thieves descended upon the Royal and visited nearly every room, emptied the manager’s safe, and got clear away. No one realised what had happened until a little old lady who had sworn she would not sleep a wink that night, woke early and discovered that her rings had gone.
Personages patronised the Royal. One of them was a friend of the Home Secretary, and he saw the Chief Constable of Larshire in person, and convinced that worthy, against the wishes of his staff, that Scotland Yard must be called in at once. The Larshire police, although they would be kept busy dealing with the chaos caused by the storm, resented this decision to a man. The most resentful was Chief Inspector Kay. His Superintendent was away and he saw this splendid opportunity to shine, snatched from him. He did not even have one day to work on the case, for the Home Secretary’s influence at Scotland Yard was such that Superintendent Bristow and a Det. Inspector Mount reached Larmouth in time for tea.
Chief Inspector Kay, dubbed a well-dressed nonentity, the rosebud in his buttonhole being a particular cause of offence, while Mount he considered unworthy of comment.
Kay fumed inwardly as he dispensed tea.
Bristow picked up the list of hotel residents. “Ah, in alphabetical order, that’s quick work.”
Slightly mollified, Kay murmured obstinately, “I always understood you people only left London on murder cases.”
“They keep me in cold storage for jewel robberies,” Bristow said lightly. It began to dawn on Kay that he might not be quite the stuffed shirt he seemed. “Mind you, I have handled one or two murders.” His grey eyes twinkled.
“So have I,” said Kay, defensively. “I don’t think you’ll find many dubious characters in that list. In my opinion it was an outside job. It has been established beyond doubt that the robbery was committed between one o’clock and half-past six.”
“H’m, yes,” said Bristow, casting his eye down the list. “I don’t think—” He broke off, abruptly.
Detective Inspector Mount glanced up, caught by the rapt expression on Bristow’s face.
“Something disturbed you?” Kay asked
.
Bristow contemplated Kay thoughtfully. He knew the man’s reputation was excellent, sympathised with him, but now he was really glad that he had been called in so quickly. “Can I tell you something in strict confidence, Kay? And—” he smiled, “shall we drop formalities?”
“Why, yes,” said Kay. “I mean, yes to both questions. You’d hardly expect me to discuss anything you tell me with—”
“Of course not,” agreed Bristow genially. “There are things it’s better for them not to know, just yet.” He tapped the list with a tobacco-stained forefinger. “I don’t want to keep anything back from you.”
“You’ve my word on it,” promised Kay, his chest almost visibly swelling.
“Thanks,” said Bristow. “There’s a man at the Royal whom I’ll have to see at once, Mannering, John Mannering.”
“What?” cried Mount, in consternation. “Is he here?”
“You can’t be confusing him with someone else, can you?” suggested Kay. “I know Mannering. Had a round of golf with him. He’s—”
“I’m not implying that Mannering robbed these people,” Bristow said gently. “I shouldn’t like to think so, anyway. But when you have a jewel robbery in a hotel where one of the guests was once the cleverest cracksman in the country, it makes you think!”
Kay’s mouth fell slowly open.
“I tell you this in strict confidence, because you might hear a rumour or two about him,” went on Bristow.
“The Baron didn’t come your way, did he?”
“No,” said Kay, at last, “I never came across him. You know, Bristow, it’s hard to believe that Mannering is the Baron. You are saying that, aren’t you?”
“It’s true enough,” said Bristow soberly. “Mannering stopped working as the Baron years ago, but he is a man for whom precious stones hold an almost abnormal fascination. He’s helped us occasionally. More often he’ll get his teeth into a job and work independently of us. In America they’d call him the best private eye in London.”
“Poacher turned gamekeeper,” Kay said primly.
“That’s right.” Mount grinned a little maliciously as he turned to Bristow. “He’ll get a hell of a shock when he sees you.”
“What are you going to do?” asked Kay. “Ask him to help?”
Bristow chuckled. “Probably.”
“Nearly fifteen thousand pounds worth of jewellery disappeared last night,” Kay mused. “It’s a handsome picking, even for a rich man. I suppose it could have been Mannering.”
“Well, let’s cut along to the scene of crime,” suggested Bristow, “and if I slip off on my own to have a word with Mannering, you’ll know why.”
“Of course,” Kay stood up slowly. He was a slow moving man by nature, but not slow thinking. Bristow guessed rightly that he was already envisaging the possibility of succeeding where Scotland Yard had failed. If Kay were preoccupied with Mannering, Bristow and Mount would have a free hand looking for the thief. On the whole Bristow felt pleased with the start of the case.
Chapter Two
Lorna is Worried
“Well,” said Mannering, lightly. “You ordered the holiday and chose the place, the hotel, the—”
“Darling,” said Lorna. “You are being a beast.”
“Only a very little beast,” said Mannering, “and that in self-defence. The probability is,” he added more soberly, “that the local police won’t think of me in connection with jewels. We’ll probably be asked again whether we lost anything, and that’ll be the end of it.”
“You don’t really think so,” said Lorna.
“Maybe it’s wishful thinking, but it’s also sound reasoning. There’s no evidence that this was a specialist’s job.”
“A small place like Larmouth wouldn’t want evidence,” said Lorna stubbornly. “All crime, however bungled, would be big news.”
Mannering took her hand. “The odds are that Larmouth has never heard of the Baron.”
“You may be right.” Lorna forced a laugh. “I’m sorry, John. I can’t help these fits of pessimism.”
“Well, let’s shake you out of this one! What about the Seaside Revels? or the Corner Theatre?”
Lorna drew her hand away. “You hate saying a word about the Baron days, and I can’t help thinking and talking of them.
There was a smile on Mannering’s lips, but his eyes were sober. He disliked these prophetic moods, more especially as they were surprisingly justified by future events.
Lorna knew all there was to know about the Baron, knew that the Baron had ceased to work years ago yet she seemed to have some sixth sense which warned her of the danger which might strike, out from the past.
“Well, let’s discuss the burglary then,” he said patiently. “It appears to have been neatly done, but there will almost certainly be prints or some kind of clue, and the local police are probably hot on their man’s trail already. Even if there were anything exceptional about it, there’s no reason to think that I shall be suspected. No one in the hotel even knows that I’ve anything to do with jewels, and—”
Lorna shrugged. “Is there time for a walk before dinner?”
“That’s more like it,” said Mannering.
There was still a stiffish wind, and the sea was running high. The promenade and the side-turnings near the beach were covered with sand, seaweed and small pieces of wreckage.
In the gathering dusk an old fisherman was sitting on an upturned tub, staring at a small boat with several boards staved in. There was such dismay and yet resignation on his face that Mannering paused to watch him, and at the same time Lorna said: “Give me my pad, darling.”
Without a word he took a small drawing pad and pencil from his pocket, and handed them to her. In a few minutes the old man was there, on paper, his expression caught with a sure touch.
“That should be good,” said Mannering, appreciatively.
“I wonder if he’ll sit for me.”
“I shouldn’t ask him now,” advised Mannering. “We’ll be able to find him in the morning.”
Lorna’s mind filled with plans for a new portrait, they turned back to the hotel.
Her depression forgotten, they stepped into the brightly-lit entrance hall – then Lorna caught her breath, and Mannering whistled softly.
Bristow was talking to Lloyd, the manager, and to a man whom Mannering recognised as the local Inspector.
Lorna tugged Mannering’s hand.
“No let’s face it,” Mannering said.
“I hope you’re not going to question every guest,” Lloyd was saying. “And then there’s the staff.”
“Only the night staff,” said Bristow, soothingly. “I’d better have a word with everyone, I think. Yes, I know it’s a big job, but I’ll be discreet.”
Lloyd glanced up, and Bristow followed his gaze as Mannering approached.
“Starting with me, Bill?”
Bristow did not even try to look surprised. Kay, looked on disapprovingly as the two men shook hands, decided coldly that it amounted to collusion between the police and a criminal.
“I hardly thought our little robbery would bring the big men down,” said Mannering, lightly. “There must be more in it than meets the eye.”
Bristow smiled. “That is what I want to discover. It is possible that your practical observations might have spotted one or two little things unnoticed by the less astute. Can you spare me a few minutes?”
“Of course.”
“My office is at your disposal,” said Lloyd, stiffly.
“Oh, my room will do, thanks,” said Mannering.
Kay had already taken the hint and was talking to one of his own men, as Mannering and Lorna accompanied Bristow to their room on the first floor. It was in partial darkness, and as Mannering switched on the light and stood aside for Lorna and Bristow to pass, he heard a faint sound, inside the room. His heart was beating a little faster as he followed the others in. A swift glance satisfied him that no one was there – until he noticed that
the coverlet at the head of the bed hung unevenly. Another odd thing struck him. The curtains were drawn but the bed was not turned down; the chambermaid usually did both these things on the same visit.
Neither Lorna nor Bristow appeared to notice anything amiss. Mannering waited for Bristow to start, with a certain anxiety. If he were stopped, he would wonder why; if he were allowed to go on, a man under the bed would hear.
“You seem to have chosen your hotel well,” Bristow began.
Mannering smiled. “Yes, haven’t we. For the information of the police, we were together in the lounge until twelve o’clock, we came to bed, we slept, we woke up, the chambermaid told us the evil tidings. We lost nothing.”
“Very pat,” said Bristow, “but—”
“Do you think I’ll be allowed in the dining-room with slippers?” Mannering asked, to Lorna’s surprise and Bristow’s bewilderment. “Sorry, Bill, I stubbed my toe on a piece of granite. Slippers, slippers, half my kingdom for a pair of slippers.” He bent down and looked under the bed.
No one was there.
“Gone! Heaven preserve me from a zealous mind!”
“They’re in the wardrobe,” said Lorna. “I’ll get them.”
“You’re not used to finding me concerned about creature comforts, Bill, are you?” murmured Mannering.
“I’m sorry you were so ill,” Bristow said formally.
“And you wrote to me three times and sent me flowers,” said Mannering. “All kindly deeds, and I won’t forget them.” He sat down on the edge of the bed and drew off his shoes, still puzzled by the movement he was sure he had noticed. No one under the bed nor, apparently, in the wardrobe. He smiled up at Bristow. “Who’s suspect Number 1?”
“We haven’t found him yet.”
“Too bad! Why did they bring you down?”
“One of the victims is a close friend of the Home Secretary.”
“Say no more. All is explained. Well, if I can help, you’ve only to ask me.”
