The Baron at Large

by John Creasey

  The Baron was sitting very still, for the girl’s passionate sincerity stirred him.

  ‘But he did talk?’

  ‘Oh yes,’ she said wearily. ‘Of Lord Sharron, and his engagement. Then my father came in, talked of a way to make a fortune quickly. It was a week ago, perhaps a little more. The strong-room, said my father. Bill, he could get at it, learn the secrets—’ Her eyes glowered, Mannering was prepared for something unexpected, and it came. ‘The quarrel! I have never heard a man talk as Bill did to my father! Tiens! Father was furious, but he pretended that his suggestion was all a joke, that he wanted to make sure that he could trust Bill. I do not think that Bill believed it.’

  Mannering was trying to fit this startling revelation in, seeing in it a possible vindication of Fay’s belief in Armstrong.

  Had Gillison eventually persuaded him?

  ‘What happened, Yvonne?’ he asked at last. The fire had gone from her now.

  ‘Bill, he left. Father, I knew, wished to dismiss him. I would not permit it. Bill was allowed to stay at his work, if he had not I would have made trouble. Then – the robbery. Bill died. My father says he knew nothing of it, says that he had seen Bill again, that Bill had agreed to help him. I shall never believe it.’

  Mannering said: ‘You’re probably right, Yvonne. You didn’t see Bill after that?’

  ‘No, not even once. His photograph in the paper, that was how I learned. I thought’—the words came quietly—‘that I would die. Hélas, it is not so easy to die. But I could not sleep. For that reason I was up when you came last night. Always I carry a gun, for I know father sometimes is in danger. There are others who dislike him. I came, I saw you. I had heard, of course, of the Baron. At once I know why you come—’

  Mannering broke in: ‘How?’

  ‘Sacre Dieu, to steal what he had stolen!’

  The moment of alarm, the absurd feeling that she might have suspected he had come to regain his own jewels, died away.

  ‘And immediately I think – I will help, for money. Father, he buys all I need, but gives me too little to spend. I had nothing to live in England for, I wanted to return to France. And so—’ She lifted her hands, a pitiful little gesture, and a smile forced itself to her lips. ‘You see?’

  ‘Yes,’ said Mannering slowly. ‘You can get away, Yvonne, but if you are wise you will stay in this country for a while. The police will be watching you; they suspect your father and probably believe that you know what he does. Bank the money, and stay in England until it is all over. Will you do that?’

  ‘I suppose it is wise.’ Her voice was low, spiritless.

  ‘It’s essential,’ said the Baron sharply. ‘Don’t go away, Yvonne, or they’ll think you are frightened. Bank the money—’

  ‘Will they know I have it?’

  ‘They may find out, but I’ve arranged to cover you,’ said Mannering, quietly. ‘You’ve nothing to worry about. We’ll talk of that later. First, Yvonne – does your father know the Baron?’

  She stared.

  ‘Know him? He has heard, of course, and talked about him, I have heard him say that he wishes he could work with him. But that is all.’

  ‘You’re sure?’

  ‘That he does not know who you are? He has never said a thing to suggest he does. If he did know you he would have said so, why should he have kept quiet?’

  That was logical, thought Mannering, but it did not answer the vital question: who had sent the note at Beverley? He had hoped to solve that problem, but it had to be shelved.

  Meanwhile he had names to work on. Smith, Mervin and Rogerson.

  He said slowly: ‘Do you know where the jewels are?’

  ‘They were at the house, or some of them. Smith had been trying to sell those which belonged to Mr. Mannering.’ She was looking at him as the name came out, but there was no suggestion of recognition. ‘Where they are now, I do not know. Father took them away.’

  ‘When?’

  ‘Soon after Smith had come back with them. Perhaps at eight o’clock. He received a telephone call, and then went out. That night I know he dined with my uncle, and they both came back to the house.’

  ‘Is Mendleson concerned in this?’ asked Mannering, more for formality’s sake than anything else. He expected a quick ‘yes’, and he was startled when she said: ‘With the thieving? No, of course not.’

  The Baron drew a deep breath. If that was true it upset the whole fabric of his theories. He tried to make his voice sound casual as he asked: ‘Are you sure?’

  ‘Tiens, I cannot be so sure as that, Baron. But my father and uncle, they have work in common, but never has thieving been discussed between them. Uncle did not come that night because of the jewels, that I am certain. They have a scheme afoot, some company they are arranging. I know I idle about it. Lord Sharron and Lord Fauntley, they are interested.’

  Mannering’s mind reeled at the further shock. ‘You’re sure of that?’

  ‘You are surprised?’ Yvonne demanded, and he caught the shrewdness of her glance. ‘Why should it interest you, it is not jewels.’

  ‘No.’ Mannering forced his voice to a tone of casual interest. ‘But I am interested in your father, Yvonne, and others. This company – what do you know about it?’

  ‘Why should you ask?’

  ‘Isn’t it enough,’ asked the Baron, ‘that I am giving you money for escape, Yvonne?’ As he spoke he took an envelope from his pocket, and opened the flap. Inside she could see a thick wad of five- and ten-pound banknotes. Mannering put them in her hand.

  ‘Of course,’ she said, ‘it is more than enough. I cannot thank you.’ Tears sprang to her eyes.

  ‘There’s no need,’ said Mannering, ‘except to tell me all you can about this company.’

  It was little enough.

  Mendleson and Gillison were promoting it, and from Gillison’s past efforts, and the suspicions that the Yard had of him, Mannering fancied that it was not what it appeared on the surface. Lord Sharron had been interested, as well as Fauntley, and with Mendleson would form the board – or so he inferred from her naive statements. It was to do with some electrical manufacture, but on facts Yvonne was vague. She tried hard, clutching the envelope that spelled her freedom, and Mannering knew she was doing her best.

  ‘And that is all I know,’ she said at last.

  She would need money in plenty if she was to go to France and live alone. She might be useful, but he did not propose to ask her to help him, it would be too dangerous; she had already shown her curiosity. Just one more question perhaps.

  ‘You think your father arranged for Armstrong’s death? What about the girl who was found murdered there?’

  ‘Oh yes.’ She spoke without enthusiasm, and he knew that she was brooding over Bill, and because of the depths of her feelings for the dead man, she would be likely to do incalculable things. He was more than ever convinced that he must not engage her active help. ‘It was, I think, Mervin. He was to go and see her. The girl had been heard to talk to the young Sharron, she was looked on as dangerous, I don’t know why. What are you staring at?’

  Her voice sharpened and Mannering averted his eyes quickly.

  ‘It doesn’t matter. So Mervin was to go and see the girl, was he?’

  Mannering barely listened to the answer. He was facing a startling fact.

  Someone had overheard the murdered girl tell Reggie her story.

  Someone in contact with Gillison had been at Beverley Towers when the girl had talked. All the guests had gone, there seemed no further doubt that Sharron or his wife or one of the servants was concerned, and he had been inclined from the first to rule out the servants.

  If Yvonne’s information was reliable, Armstrong had rejected the proposition.

  And Mendleson, she was sure, was not directly connected with the robbery.

  Was it Sharron?

  Chapter Fourteen

  Bits And Pieces

  Mannering did not return to the Park Lane flat, but wit
h the help of a bottle of spirit in his pocket, cleaned off the greasepaint and other signs of the disguise at a cloakroom at Waterloo, and went to Brook Street. By that time Tring would have discovered the car, located the garage, and made his report, but it would not help the police. Yvonne had returned to Barnes. If the money was found she was to say that she had won it in betting, and Mannering had given her the name of a bookmaker who had the transactions on his ledgers, and would support her story if necessary. If she kept her head she would be safe enough.

  As he suspected, Gillison was the instigator of the robbery. But the actual thief was still unknown, the jewels were as far away as ever, and Mannering believed that they would not remain in the country for long. To save them he must work fast.

  He was dressing when a call came from Lorna with news he had half-expected. Fay was getting in an extremely overwrought state, and something must be done about it.

  ‘I’ll come over,’ promised Mannering. ‘About nine.’

  Five minutes later the phone rang again. This time it was Leverson.

  ‘Hello, Flick. News?’

  ‘Of a kind,’ said Leverson. ‘I’ve nothing to help you directly, John, but I’ve discovered that Mendleson has a private secretary named Rogerson.’

  The little pulse in the Baron’s temple beat fast.

  ‘And?’

  ‘Rogerson hasn’t a good reputation. He was mixed up some time ago in a bucket-shop business, with a man named Mervin.’

  ‘What?’ That name again! ‘Where can I find him?’

  ‘He’s in the phone book – Bewlay Mansions, I think, Mayfair. John, be warned by me, neither man is safe to play with.’

  ‘I’ve guessed that,’ Mannering said drily.

  He put the receiver down thoughtfully. The thing which Yvonne had told him and which had startled him at the time, was growing more significant. Fauntley and Sharron, reputedly irreproachable, were apparently lined up with Mendleson and a company which had specialised in bucket-shop frauds.

  Did Sharron’s nervousness mean that he suspected the nature of the company that was to be promoted? If he was party to a coming fraud it would explain his nervousness, his loss of control. The more Mannering dwelt on Lord Sharron the more he doubted whether the man’s recent activities could bear a close examination. For a moment he envied the police, who could have made an inquiry without the slightest trouble.

  Fauntley, of course, could give him particulars of the company, but the only way to find the depths of Sharron’s complicity was to raid his home.

  And with the police concentrated about the Towers on the murder investigation, that was virtually impossible.

  ‘Mervin and Rogerson first, I think,’ murmured the Baron.

  The dinner he had sent for from the restaurant was now brought in. Mannering went to his cocktail cabinet, and took the key out of his pocket. He frowned.

  There were three or four minute scratches on the brass of the hole-piece.

  He looked closer. The marks were obviously those of a pick-lock, used on the cabinet. It flashed through his mind that the police had paid him a visit, and there was a grim smile on his lips as he pulled at the door.

  It jammed.

  ‘Not Tring’s work,’ murmured the Baron, ‘he’s not so clumsy.’

  A very faint, sweetish smell came from the cabinet. He left the door where it was, and stepped back, hearing a little hissing sound as he moved. It was gas of a kind; it had been put there so that on opening the cabinet he would breathe it in sharply: only death came to a man who breathed in prussic acid in any quantity.

  He was alert for every possibility: it was even possible that the man who had put it there was waiting in the flat.

  He had not been in the spare room, the man might be waiting there to see the results of this attempt – even to make it look like suicide: that had been tried on the Baron before. Keeping well away from the cabinet, he drew a deep breath, and wrenched the door open.

  There was a sharp tinkle, the hissing grew louder and a cloud of gas billowed out. He dropped as it came, avoiding it. As he thudded to the floor, he moaned, simulating pain.

  The hissing softened, died down.

  Silence.

  Then, softly, the sound of a door opening. He forced back a temptation to look round, as someone stepped from the bedroom.

  Mannering heard the sound of a man’s hushed breathing. A shadow fell across his head and shoulders, as the intruder passed the light. The shadow grew lower. Out of the corner of his eye Mannering could see the man’s legs, saw him bending down, every movement soft and slow and dangerous.

  Mannering felt a cold, intense anger. The would-be murderer was bending down, a hand was stretched out to touch Mannering’s arm. Even now the movements were gradual, as though the other was half-fearful of a kick.

  Mannering moved.

  His hand gripped a hairy wrist with a fierce painful grip that made the other gasp. He twisted, sharply, intent on hurting. The man toppled forward, while Mannering sprang to his feet. The air was clear enough to breathe, although the faint smell of almonds still hung about the room. He saw the other’s misshapen lips and knew that it was Rogerson.

  Mannering’s right fist shot out. He caught Rogerson beneath the chin. Rogerson grunted, and his eyes rolled. Mannering was filled with a fierce, savage anger, a desire to beat the man up, to make him suffer; but there was warning in his mind, too, an awareness of further danger.

  He hit him again sending him reeling backwards. Mannering grabbed at his coat, in time to stop him from falling. He lowered him to the floor, then flung the window wide, welcoming the cold rush of air.

  His singlet was clinging to him, as though he had been in an over-heated room. He loosened his collar and tie, and wiped his face with a handkerchief. Then, with a glance at the unconscious Rogerson, Mannering stepped to the cabinet.

  The contraption was simplicity itself.

  On a small square of wood stood a tin, and next to it a wine glass was on its side. Water from it had spread about the wood and was dripping to the carpet. In the tin were several small pieces of what looked like wet soda. Mannering drew back hastily.

  The fiendish cleverness of the trick appalled him.

  The ‘soda’ was cyanide of potassium, of course, harmless when dry, but once the glass had been upset by the opening of the door prussic acid was generated by contact with water. A strong inhalation would have caused almost instantaneous death.

  Despite the open windows the smell hung about the room.

  Mannering realised that Rogerson must be one of the people who knew him as the Baron, might even be one of a dozen who knew that secret.

  The danger had increased a hundredfold.

  Mannering turned back to the tin. The quantity of the gas generated had been too small to linger for long, only a sharp inward breath – natural in surprise – would have been sufficient to kill him. The nearness of the escape came back with redoubled force, the savage anger he had felt made the greater significance of Rogerson’s presence fade.

  He went into the bathroom, sponged his eyes with a weak boric acid mixture. There was no smell at all when at last he closed the window, dragged Rogerson from the floor and pushed him into an easy chair. He tied the man’s ankles, to make a sudden movement impossible.

  Leverson had warned him: the two murders – he was sure in his own mind of Armstrong’s fate – should have been enough to have stopped him; but he had gone on and this was the result. He could not doubt that it was a direct answer from Gillison. Gillison knew him, knew of the danger he represented, and had sent Rogerson: there seemed no other explanation.

  Could he force Rogerson to talk?

  Talk of the police to a man who knew him for the Baron would be ineffective. Mannering was worried, and yet grimly determined to learn what Rogerson knew.

  The man in the chair stirred.

  Mannering lifted the telephone, and dialled Leverson’s number. He did not appear to be watching Rogerson,
but he saw the man’s eyelids flicker, saw his hands grip the arms of the chair.

  Leverson answered.

  ‘Flick,’ said Mannering slowly, ‘I’ve an important job for you. It’s one of the bunch we were talking about, and I want him well looked after … yes, in London preferably … he’ll probably be obstinate, but he’s got to talk.’

  Leverson said: ‘When will you bring him?’

  ‘I can’t be sure. Where’s the best place?’

  ‘The Pitcher,’ said Leverson. ‘I’ll go there at once. Go into the private bar, and ask for me. Is he all right?’

  ‘So far,’ said the Baron, ‘but whether he will be when I’ve finished with him I don’t know.’

  Putting down the receiver, Mannering stepped across the room, stood a yard from the other, and rasped: ‘Who sent you?’

  Rogerson shut his mouth in a tight line, both fear and defiance clear in his eyes.

  ‘There isn’t the time nor the opportunity,’ said the Baron in a hard, cold voice, ‘to do what I want, Rogerson. But you’re going to get rough treatment, and the longer you keep silent the rougher it will be.’

  Fear was getting the upper hand.

  ‘Don’t be a fool!’ The voice was thick, nasal. ‘You daren’t do anything, if you do I’ll tell the police—’

  Mannering’s voice was whip-like.

  ‘You’ll tell the police what?’

  ‘That—that you’re the Baron! I tell you—’

  He stopped, staring at Mannering’s face which now showed a startled, incredulous expression, as though he could not believe his ears.

  ‘I’m—what?’

  ‘The Baron.’

  Mannering laughed contemptuously.

  ‘Someone’s been pulling your leg. Who was it?’

  Rogerson looked as startled as Mannering had done: he had believed Mannering to be the Baron but he did not know for sure. It was the first break Mannering had had that day. His spirits rose.

  ‘You needn’t trouble to call the police, I’ll call them for you – when I’ve finished with you. But first, I want the story. When friends of mine get caught in a company racket run by two gentlemen like Gillison and Mendleson, I get worried. The police have tried to prove bucket-shop cases against them before, but they’ve failed. This time I’m keeping Fauntley and Sharron clear, and the way to do it is to prove it’s a swindle, not talk about it. However—’ He broke off, appearing not to watch the man, actually seeing every expression in the other’s dark, close-set eyes. ‘That won’t interest you. Nothing is going to interest you for a long time.’