The Baron at Large

by John Creasey

  Bristow took it, swallowed it at a stretch and then unexpectedly laughed. That saving grace of his, a capacity to laugh when the joke was against himself, made Mannering warm to the man.

  ‘All right, drat you, but I’ll get you soon. You may be after your own jewels, but you’ve got to keep inside the law. Once and for all – will you stop it?’

  ‘The only time I went outside the law,’ said Mannering easily, ‘was when I did thirty-two miles an hour in a thirty area, but no one saw me. You look tired, Bill, what’s the matter?’

  In Bristow, two sides warred. He knew that Mannering had been to Barnes, and was equally certain that he would not be able to prove it. He was inclined to believe that Mannering’s motive had been to regain his lost jewels, and perhaps those of the other four victims. Had he been convinced that was all, he would have given him his head, for Mannering’s connection among fences was far more likely to yield results than the ordinary routine of the police.

  But if the Baron found Sharron’s jewels, as well as the others, would they ever be returned?

  Bristow doubted it. He dared strike no bargains with the nonchalant man in front of him, he had to work against the Baron as well as the thieves at Beverley. Now that the whisky had done its work he realised the futility of this visit to Mannering, who was never without an answer, never off his guard.

  ‘If you don’t know what’s the matter, Mannering, look in the papers in the morning. By the way, what did you think of the girl?’

  ‘What girl?’

  ‘Oh well,’ said Bristow. The trick question, so often successful, was useless against Mannering. ‘If you won’t take a warning, I can’t help you.’

  ‘I’ll have to try to help myself,’ murmured Mannering, and as Bristow turned to the door, he said quietly: ‘Bill, did I read something about a girl found murdered at Beverley?’

  Bristow’s face grew hard.

  ‘Yes. Of course, you—’ he hesitated.

  ‘Made you curious about her,’ said the Baron. ‘I’ve been thinking this way, Bill. Young Sharron told me her story, but at secondhand it’s hardly evidence. Firsthand, from Rose Sanders, it might have been evidence for Armstrong’s defence. Oh, I know he won’t be standing in the dock, but that’s no reason why he shouldn’t be proved innocent – if he was.’

  There was a grimness about Mannering’s eyes which surprised Bristow, although it should not have done. In the past he had known the Baron go into action with no greater cause than to prove a man’s innocence, when he had had the same end in view as Bristow.

  Was he making Armstrong’s complicity a cause?

  ‘Of course not,’ Bristow said. ‘But I think Armstrong was a party to the theft, even if in a small way.’

  ‘But Armstrong died, and he can’t talk. The girl died, and she can’t talk. Significant, don’t you think? I wonder if there isn’t something deeper behind it, something you haven’t seen yet, and I’m groping for.’

  Bristow shrugged.

  ‘We’ll find it eventually and there’s no need at all for you to interfere. You’re risking your own safety for something that doesn’t directly concern you, Mannering. Why must you do it?’

  For once the Baron did not evade the question.

  ‘Bill,’ he said, ‘I’ve taken a fancy to Fay Sharron, and a dislike to her parents. Incidentally, I’m not impressed by Matthew Mendleson.’

  ‘You know where Mendleson was tonight?’

  ‘I haven’t a notion.’

  ‘Who are you fooling?’ snapped Bristow. ‘I’m going.’

  As the door closed behind his visitor, Mannering stared thoughtfully at it for some minutes, and then with a yawn he went back to bed, and slept.

  Something soft against his cheek awakened him.

  He was alert on the instant, forcing his breathing to keep steady, tensing the muscles of his arms in readiness for a spring. When he opened his eyes it was with a cry of relief, as they rested on Lorna.

  As she settled a tray of morning tea at his side, he noted the hint of apprehension in her fine eyes.

  For a time she chatted affectionately of nothing in particular, then she said carefully: ‘You were at Gillison’s house last night, darling, and whoever knows Mannering as the Baron might not be pleased about it.’

  ‘It’s a point,’ admitted the Baron as carefully. ‘But I’m truly not worrying. How did you know I’d been to Barnes?’

  Lorna glanced at a pile of papers behind her. ‘Did you get anything worth getting?’

  He related the story briefly, with the easy, almost flippant way she knew so well. Through the adventure of the night she lived almost as vividly as the Baron, but it was Reggie Sharron’s story and the murder of the maid that worried her most. Mannering could see that she was wishing she had not urged him to find the truth about Armstrong, but that would pass, she would soon be as anxious as he to justify Fay’s belief in the man.

  And the clear-cut case of murder now made it far more urgent.

  ‘So you think it was Mendleson and Gillison?’

  ‘It’s looking that way,’ said the Baron. ‘But I’m interested in Sharron, too. He refused to have a police guard that night although I advised it strongly, and so did Errol, the watchman. Errol takes the charitable view, although he’s reason enough to be vindictive against Sharron.’

  ‘The charitable view?’

  ‘That Sharron’s been worried by the Fay-Armstrong engagement, and is a little off his balance because of it.’

  Lorna poured out more tea as she said decisively: ‘The police seem to agree that Mendleson’s the man, and you’ve reached the same conclusion. Armstrong is already a party to it, and now if you start bringing Sharron in—’

  Mannering lifted a hand.

  ‘Easy, angel! Armstrong’s case is still “not proven”.’

  ‘I don’t think anyone, Fay included, would agree with you over that,’ said Lorna as decisively as before. ‘But she does want to know what forced him to do it, she just doesn’t believe it was for the sake of the money. No, John. Sharron had good cause to be worried, you can’t reasonably suspect him.’

  ‘As to that, you may be right,’ said the Baron evasively. ‘What’s the time?’

  ‘Nearly eleven.’

  ‘As late as that? Angel, start cooking my breakfast, and I’ll be ready in ten minutes.’

  Using the shaving kit that he kept at the studio, and dressing in a lounge suit also there for emergency, he was actually ready in a quarter of an hour. Lorna had grilled bacon and tomatoes, and he set to hungrily while she glanced through the London papers.

  The burglary at Castelnau had been starred, and talk of the Baron was rampant again.

  ‘Feeling proud of yourself?’ Lorna asked, as she picked up another of the papers.

  ‘No, darling, proud of you and your way with tomatoes. Who taught you to cook?’

  ‘Who taught the Baron to pick locks?’ demanded Lorna.

  It was fifteen minutes before they left the studio. They walked to Portland Place, but Mannering did not go in, while at his fiat his first task was to telephone Gregory.

  ‘Young Sharron’s about as well as you can expect,’ Gregory said gruffly, ‘but why the devil did you have to tell the police about it, Mannering? There’s a jackanapes here all the time, and the passage is filled with blasted kids peeking at him.’

  ‘It had to be done,’ said Mannering. ‘When will he be able to talk rationally?’

  ‘In forty-eight hours – if he has enough rest,’ grunted the doctor.

  So Reggie was off the list of visitors for another two days. Mannering felt impatient, wondered whether the peer’s son had told all of his story. He could not erase his impression that it was a deeper business even than the police suspected.

  And, too, he was beginning to wonder whether Bristow had gone to raid Gillison, or gone to try to find the Baron.

  No one had known of his intended visit: but someone might have followed him, might have learned of the
flat in Park Lane. It was a disquieting thought, and he had to fight against a temptation to ask Bristow direct questions.

  He was more disturbed when, just after one-thirty, he left the flat to find no policeman watching him.

  Bristow had every reason for strengthening the guard, none for cancelling it. Mannering was afraid of a trick, and he walked for half an hour about Regent Street and Piccadilly, watching carefully for a sign of a shadow. He saw no one, discovered nothing that encouraged his vague fears.

  He took a taxi to Fuller Mansions, and waited on the opposite side of the Lane for a few minutes before going into the block. He saw no one he knew, was certain he was not followed. But the uneasiness remained.

  Altering his face from Mannering’s to Moore’s was a quicker business this time, and before three o’clock he slipped out of the back entrance of the Mansions. Yvonne would not recognise him, for he had made vital alterations to his disguise of the night before, but it would not be difficult to prove to her that it was the Baron. In his pockets were five hundred pounds: the original notes taken from Gillison’s safe were floating in the Thames, but Mannering meant to keep his word to Yvonne.

  Unless he did she would not be likely to talk, and he knew there was good reason to believe she could explain many things. He was intrigued at the fact that young Yvonne Gillison and Bill Armstrong had been in any way associated. He had not told Lorna of that: it would strengthen the case against Armstrong, and he wanted her to believe in the man for the time being.

  At four o’clock, confident that no one had followed him, he stepped into the Lyons tea-shop in Putney High Street.

  He selected a small table near the door, and looked about him. Less than twenty people were drinking tea or eating buns. He saw Yvonne at once, but before talking to her he wanted to weigh up the opposition.

  It was considerable, for it was Tanker Tring.

  Mannering’s eyes narrowed, but he felt more reassured. Bristow had taken the guard off Mannering to put it on the girl, and that move did the Chief Inspector credit. Mannering knew that Bristow was shrewd, but he had hardly expected him to suspect that the Baron might meet Yvonne again. It meant, of course, that Yvonne had given cause for suspicion on the previous night.

  He felt a little pulse in his right temple ticking with anxiety. It he went to the girl and introduced himself to her, Tring might act. Bristow had set this trap with his customary care.

  Mannering signalled a waitress. He had already ordered tea; and this time he suggested cream buns, going on to say pleasantly: ‘The young lady in the corner – has she yet had her bill?’

  ‘No, sir.’ The waitress’s face was expressionless.

  ‘Can you arrange for a little note to be sent to her, when the bill is delivered?’ He offered a florin, and the waitress nodded as she took it. Mannering scribbled on a page from his notebook, while Tring occupied himself by drinking tea and ostentatiously studying the sports news.

  Mannering waited long enough to see Yvonne take the note. His opinion of the girl rose: she accepted it as though it were nothing unusual, and certainly there was no need for Tring to suspect that as well as her bill she had the brief instructions which Mannering had written.

  Take a bus to the top of Putney Hill. Wait for me there.

  Chapter Thirteen

  Yvonne

  To walk to the nearest garage, hire a small saloon car and to reach the top of Putney Hill, took the Baron twenty minutes. Yvonne was waiting, standing near the bus-stop, and Tanker Tring was fifty yards away from her, on the same side of the road. Mannering watched closely, and saw no car standing nearby. Tring, then, was on foot. It made the Baron’s task easier.

  He no longer felt worried. Bristow’s trick was obvious, and it was fighting the unexpected that perturbed the Baron. He drew up sharply in front of Yvonne. In the driving mirror he saw Tring hurrying forward, but the sergeant was thirty yards away.

  Yvonne looked startled.

  ‘In, quickly,’ snapped the Baron, and his voice was unmistakable. She acted without a moment’s hesitation; as Mannering opened the door she slipped next to him, and the car started off again.

  Tring ran the last few yards desperately, but was still well behind when they moved. Mannering could imagine the man’s quandary. Whether to use his whistle and try to get the car stopped, or to admit that Yvonne had slipped him.

  Mannering laughed softly. At his side Yvonne was staring before her with those wide-set, greenish eyes. ‘Why did you do this?’

  ‘You are being watched,’ said Mannering simply. ‘Didn’t you see him?’

  ‘Watched.’ she repeated sharply. ‘Why should I be?’

  ‘I fancy your family will be watched for some time,’ said the Baron. The thrill of the game, the exhilaration of knowing that every moment carried danger, every action had to be well-considered, was showing in his eyes. At moments like these he found it hard to believe that he had tried so often to push the Baron behind him, that only circumstances had forced him into action.

  At Portland Place there was Fay Sharron, worried, anxious, mourning her dead lover and yet afraid of the truth she might learn about him; that truth was more likely to come through the Baron than any man. There was the dead Armstrong and the murdered girl, people for the Baron to avenge. There was the knowledge that Mendleson and Gillison were mixed up in the business, the murder as likely as the thefts. There was the strange case of Lord Sharron, another piece of the puzzle that could not yet be solved. And there were the Kallinovs to get back.

  All part of the game, all making the Baron’s interest deeper, bringing the light of battle to his eyes. And for the moment the most important of the cyphers in the strange game was Yvonne, with her strange behaviour of the previous night, her unexpected talk of ‘Bill’, and those queerly intent green eyes now staring at him.

  The Baron swung the car towards the. Wandsworth Road, and glanced at the dashboard clock. They had been driving for two minutes. Within five Tring would have sent a call out for the car, it was not wise to stay in it long.

  The girl said: ‘You mean that? They are still watching us?’

  Still, thought Mannering.

  ‘Yes. How long have they been interested in your father?’ She shrugged.

  ‘How do I know? For some days, it would seem. Last night they expected to find the jewels.’ She spoke with the slight breathlessness of one who was frightened and trying not to show it.

  Mannering felt reassured: so it had been a raid against Gillison, there was no need to fear that his own visit had inspired Bristow’s call.

  ‘Did they?’

  ‘No, of course not. Father isn’t a fool.’

  ‘I gathered that,’ said the Baron drily. They had reached the road junction leading to West Hill, and he pulled into the kerb, after making sure that no policeman was in sight. She climbed out quickly, and hurried with him across the road. A bus had pulled up, going towards Tooting and Streatham.

  They reached an almost deserted top deck, and selected a seat well away from anyone who might overhear them.

  He said warningly: ‘We’ve slipped the police, but they’ll be watching for the car.’

  She smiled for the first time; a quick, lively smile.

  ‘You are a remarkable man, Baron.’

  ‘Careful,’ said the Baron, ‘it’s never wise to toss names about. I’m not so remarkable as experienced, Yvonne. Now – I’ve the money in my pocket. Not the notes that came from the safe, so you can use them safely. But before we reach that stage, I want you to talk. Why are you so anxious to get away?’

  As the bus threaded its leviathan way through the traffic, Yvonne told her story. It had the merits of simplicity, and Mannering believed her, searching in every sentence she uttered for something that might give him direct help in his quest.

  It seemed she had little regard for her mother, and none for her father. Estelle Annette she dismissed with a grimace

  ‘A cocotte, that is all. Father, of course, he
knows it. He does not care. All he is interested in is money.’ The Baron could believe that.

  Gillison had hidden the fact that he trafficked in stolen gems from his daughter and his wife, and Estelle knew nothing of it. Yvonne, more often at home, had not been so easily hoodwinked. She talked of three men who sometimes visited the house. Smith, tall, thin and hungry-looking. Mervin, fat and short, who lived in Mayfair and whom she dismissed with the same arrogance as she had dismissed Estelle. The third man had obviously impressed her.

  ‘Rogerson is important. He works, I think, for my uncle, in his offices.’

  The Baron’s eyes narrowed, but he did not interrupt.

  ‘You would always know him,’ Yvonne said. ‘He has a strange mouth, deformed I think.’ Her voice altered, there was now an undercurrent of emotion in it. ‘Then there was Bill.’

  The Baron waited, his heart beating fast. The bus came to a standstill, people clattered up and down the stairs. The Baron swore beneath his breath, and with his mind on ‘Bill’, left the bus and hurried to the nearest tea-shop, in Streatham High Street. The tables were small, and well-spaced. He selected the most isolated and ordered tea and cakes.

  He said easily, curbing his impatience: ‘Now you can talk.’

  Her words came in a spate. Bill Armstrong had come to Gillison for work. Among his other activities, Gillison controlled several small factories, all engaged in the manufacture of minor patents. Armstrong had been given a post at one of them, and: ‘Sometimes Father sent for him. He came, of course. I—but what does it matter, he is dead. They killed him, they—’

  ‘Steady!’ snapped Mannering. For the first time her control had broken, but she steadied herself immediately at his warning.

  ‘I’m sorry, I will remember. He did not know, of course, how I felt. Why should he? Sometimes tea at the house, once he spent an evening there, and I—I was to find out many things about him. My father had asked – I had to do it. He was so difficult to talk to, so—so bitter. How did he know what I was thinking, how I wanted to help him? How could he know that I hated this woman he mentioned sometimes, this Fay? How could my father know it was torture to listen, to get him to talk?’