John Creasey - Meet The Baron
“I can take the small stuff,” Flick had told him, “but if you ever get any big stuff don’t try me; try Levy Schmidt.”
Mannering had smiled at the time, for Levy had recommended Flick. Moreover, he had been warned by several gentlemen of the fraternity to avoid Levy Schmidt like the plague. Levy was reputed to be a police-informer. Mannering had said as much.
“He’s a snout,” Flick Leverson had admitted, “on the little boys, bo’. He puts the dicks on to the rats while he gets away with the big boys himself. You take my word for it. Levy Schmidt’s all right if your stuff’s big.”
Mannering had tried Levy out with the Kenton brooch. Contrary to Detective-Inspector Bristow’s belief. Levy had not given the tweed-capped man away; he had played a part, suggested by Mannering, that had completely hoodwinked the detective. In other words. Flick Leverson had been right.
Mannering naturally thought of Levy Schmidt in connection with the Rosa pearls. Levy would probably refuse to part with more than live thousand pounds for them, but at that time Mannering’s exchequer was in sad need of replenishment. He would rather sell to Levy at half the value (illegal value) of the pearls, and get his cash immediately, than wait until he found someone with whom he could deal direct. In any event, direct dealing in a case like this might have unforeseen results; it was foolish to take undue risks.
“Levy it is,” said Mannering, leaving the pearls on the table while he brewed himself tea at the service-flat which he used as a place of retreat. John Mannering, man-about-town, lived at the Elan Hotel, for the sake of his reputation.
“Levy it shall be,” he said, as he drank the tea. “Levy to-night,” he murmured tunefully, for he was still very pleased with the success of his raid on the previous night.
And then he became very thoughtful.
At eight o’clock that night a man in a tweed cap waited near Levy Schmidt’s pawnshop in the Mile End Road until the pawnbroker, grey and bent and weary-looking, left his shop, locked it, and began to walk slowly towards the nearest tram-stop. The man in the tweed cap followed him, even on to a tram travelling towards Aldgate. At Aldgate Levy clambered off it awkwardly, and the man with the tweed cap jumped off in time to see Levy disappear into that most unlikely of places — the Oriem Turkish Baths.
The man in the tweed cap waited on a corner opposite the baths, from where he could see both entrances to the building. Twice a policeman viewed him suspiciously, and once he looked frankly into the constable’s face, to avoid suspicion.
“Fixture, ain’t I ?” he said. “She works over there. Oughter be out soon.”
The bobby smiled to himself sentimentally and walked on.
Ten minutes later a Daimler car drew up outside the Oriem Turkish Baths, chauffeured by a burly man in a peaked cap and a blue uniform. Five minutes later still Mr Septimus Lee left the Oriem Turkish Baths and hurried to the Daimler. The Daimler moved off into the stream of traffic going towards the City.
“Now that,” muttered the man in the tweed cap, pulling its peak farther over his face and slouching towards a bus, apparently forgetful of “she”, “is a beautiful piece of luck. If you don’t do well at this game, J.M., it’ll be your own darned fault.”
For Septimus Lee and Levy Schmidt were one and the same!
Mannering had made a list of receivers of stolen goods — known in the vernacular as “fences” and by Flick Leverson’s more up-to-date colloquialism as “smashers” — supplied by that philosophical fence, for Flick had realised that it was possible he would be nobbled, and his fears had been justified. Mannering had little desire to try these men with the stuff — or, to use Flick’s term again, the “sparks” — that was being watched for by the police. Others besides Levy
Schmidt might be informers on big stuff or small; and, n any case, he could not expect such co-operation from them as he had received from Levy.
His discovery of the Jew’s dual personality intrigued him. The man’s cunning was astonishing — and too thorough, the Baron decided, to be matched — yet.
As pawnbroker and fence Lee would be waiting warily for the Rosa pearls; as the financial head of the Severell Trust he would probably be watching Mannering carefully. Mannering was not, in those first months, sure enough of the effectiveness of his tweed-cap disguise, even with variations, to try it out again with Lee as Levy. So it had to be someone else.
Mannering decided to try a warehouse-owner by the name of Grayson, a pink-and-white doll of a man with a devastating bass voice. Grayson controlled two or three coastal steamers which disgorged goods at his East End warehouse and carried other cargoes to the North of England and occasionally to Holland. He was able to smuggle stolen goods from one country to the other, and Flick Leverson had said: “He’ll swindle you. Levy’s a tight swine, but Grayson will do you down worse than Levy. But he’s straight.”
A tribute, Mannering had thought, to the honour among thieves that he would put to the test.
Three days later the robbery at Septimus Lee’s house a swarthy, big muscled man visited the warehouse offices of Grayson — Dicker Grayson — and asked for the boss. In view of the many sides to his business Grayson made a point of interviewing all callers, and the big-muscled man was admitted to his private office.
“Well?” boomed Grayson. “What d’you want? A job?”
The other shook his head. His brown eyes — hazel eyes — looked sullen, and he spoke gruffly and awkwardly, as though suffering from a slight impediment. He looked a man who was frightened of a coming trick, and certainly no one — not even Randall — would have recognised him as John Mannering.
“No,” he muttered; “I’ve come from Flick. Know Flick?”
Grayson’s little eyes narrowed. His pump hands tightened on the arms of his chair, for he knew a man from Flick Leverson could mean only one thing.
Mannering was conscious of a keen scrutiny; Grayson was at once trying to remember whether he had ever seen him before and making sure that he would always recognise him in the future. Beneath that pink-and-white face and those small puffy eyes was a mind at once shrewd and alert.
“Never seen him in my life,” thought Grayson. “A North Countryman, by his voice. Fat face, full lips — don’t fit in with his eyes, somehow, although perhaps they do.” He was quiet for a moment, deliberately trying the other’s nerve, but the big man seemed prepared to stare him out for ever.
“What do you want from Flick?” he demanded at last.
“He’s gone away for a year or two,” The big-muscled man grinned suddenly, and then that furtive, half-fearful expression returned to his face. “Listen, Mr Grayson — Flick said you’d buy some stuff from me. I’m stuck. Got me?”
Grayson nodded, and his grin widened. He did not doubt the man’s genuineness, for Flick Leverson was a straight dealer; arrested or not, he would never have turned copper’s nark. Moreover, something seemed to tell Grayson that this man would take very little for his goods.
“What is it ?” he demanded.
“You’re on the level?” The swarthy man’s eyes narrowed; his fear was very evident now.
“You know I am or you wouldn’t have come to me,” said Grayson.
The other seemed satisfied by the bluntness of the assurance, and pulled an oilskin bag from his fob-pocket. He dropped it on the desk in front of the fence, and Grayson opened it, expecting to find the proceeds of a smash-and-grab raid or a “snatch”. When he saw the first thing — a pearl ear-ring which had adorned the ear of Lady Dane Fullarth a few weeks before — the fat man’s eyes widened. When he saw the second, a scintillating diamond pendant strung on platinum links, his eyes bulged. When he saw the third, a sapphire ring with a centre stone as large as Grayson’s little finger-nail, he gasped, startled out of his calm.
“Where’d you get these ?” His voice, for once, was low.
The dark-faced man looked ugly.
“That’s my pigeon, mister. Are you buying or aren’t you? That’s all I wanter know.”
Grayson swallowed hard. He ran through the remainder of the stuff, and reckoned quickly that he would sell them for two thousand, perhaps five hundred more. The seller was frightened and in need of money. He calculated swiftly, his one concern not to offer too much.
“I’ll give you two-fifty,” he said.
The man didn’t speak, and the silence dragged.
“Well ?” snapped the fence.
“Why, sure,” said the big-muscled man, standing up and stretching his hand out for the bag. “I’ll find someone who’ll like ‘em as a present, mister. Deal’s off.”
In that moment Grayson saw two things. One, the man wore gloves, to make sure that no one saw his bare hands. Two, that the best haul of genuine stones which he’d seen in years was disappearing. He cleared his throat, and waved his podgy fingers.
“Now wait a minute,” he protested. “There’s a big risk handling that stuff, and you know it. Four hundred. Not a penny more.”
The other grinned knowingly.
“I tell you I’ll give em away,” he said gruffly. “Fifteen hundred, and I’ll listen to you.”
“You’re crazy !” snapped Grayson.
“Maybe — but not as crazy as that,” said the other.
“Seven-fifty. That’s my final offer.”
“Sure it is. Jumped up pritty quick, ain’t it? I’ll wait until Flick comes out. “He’ll give me two thousand, and reckon he’s got a bargain. Let’s have ‘em.”
Grayson held on to the oilskin bag, and looked at the big man, into those piercing hazel eyes. For some reason his back went cold. He had made a big mistake in thinking the other was easy meat, but he still wanted those jewels.
“Listen,” he said, “twelve hundred, level. You’ll never find anyone else to give you more, son, and, remember, I take all the risks while smothering the stuff. Now, what about it ?”
The big man seemed to hesitate. Then he thrust his gloved hands into his pockets and nodded.
“Cash right away,” he said, “in small notes.”
“I’ll have to get ‘em,” said Grayson.
“I’ll wait,” said his caller.
Three hours later Mannering strolled into the Leadenhall Street branch of the City and Western Bank and deposited four hundred pounds. The cashier nodded respectfully, secretly admiring the lean, strong face of the famous John Mannering. From there Mannering went to the National
Bank and deposited a similar amount, finishing up with adding three hundred and fifty pounds to his account at the Piccadilly branch of the South-eastern.
“I think,” he soliloquised as he strolled towards the Ritz afterwards, “that I deserve the other fifty for pin-money. Grayson will be useful in future, but the less I see him the better I’ll like it. Furrrh!”
The pressure of the rubber pads he had placed in his cheeks that afternoon — which explained the “impediment” — and the ridge where his cunningly adapted false front-teeth had barked against his gums still seemed present in his mouth. The teeth consisted of thin rubber, stretched over the surface, and the discomfort was worth it, he knew. Eyes or no eyes, Dicker Grayson would not have recognised him if he had tried for a month.
“Anyhow,” he told himself with satisfaction, “that’s one urgent problem settled.”
It was just after four o’clock when he reached his flat, and he opened the door without the slightest premonition of trouble. There was, after all, no reason why he should expect it. He lit a cigarette, and then glanced round.
In that moment he knew that he had been visited.
He had no time for thinking before the faintest of movements in the bathroom caught his ears. His eyes narrowed a fraction, and his lips tightened, but he went round the room despite the knowledge that the intruder was still there.
A drawer of his writing-desk was partly open, and the position of the settee had been altered. On the carpet there was a small sheaf of bills, until recently resting in the drawer; other small things confirmed the object of the visitation. He was being burgled; and his thoughts flew immediately to Septimus Lee.
His reaction to this new and unsuspected danger was cool. In the past few months he seemed to have achieved a state of nerves as close to rock-like as was humanly possible. The problem of the moment was the only thing that concerned him; everything else was driven from his mind.
His flat had been raided, and the raider was still there; his luck was holding. The probability was that Septimus Lee — or Levy Schmidt — had connected the robbery at Streatham, and was investigating.
Mannering was sorely tempted to go immediately to the desk and explore the false bottom of one of its drawers — the drawer where the Rosa pearls were hidden. He overcame the temptation, and walked instead to the window, opening it an inch before lighting a cigarette. Then he stripped off his jacket and turned his shirt-sleeves up to the elbows, as if he was going to wash his hands. Not for a moment did he give the impression that he was on the alert.
His face was expressionless as he walked to the bathroom door. He knew that he was being watched, or waited for. A moment’s reflection told him that the raider was probably behind the door, waiting for his entry. He grinned suddenly, and pushed the door back — hard!
There was an ouch! of pain, an oath, the sound of a heavy body hitting against the wall. The door was flung to again, but he steadied it with his foot and rushed into the bathroom, ready for trouble, but it wasn’t likely to come. A thickset man was reeling against the wall, holding his nose, a nose that streamed rich red blood.
“Now don’t do that,” said Mannering chidingly. “Best thing for nose-bleeding is to hold your head back. Or try a door-key.”
The man swore viciously and swung a clumsy right towards Mannering’s chin. Mannering slipped it without any trouble, and clipped his man beneath the jaw twice in rapid succession. The other gasped and swayed away.
“Which should teach you,” said Mannering cheerfully, “that the reward for ingratitude is what you don’t expect. Now, my friend, duck your head into that basin for a minute.”
He grabbed the man’s arm and led him to the washing-basin, ducked his head below the level of the taps, and turned the cold-water tap full on. The man gasped and struggled, but Mannering’s grip was tight and painful. The water turned a muddy brown, but a second basinful was only slightly discoloured.
“Now,” said Mannering, still cheerfully, and surveying the other’s dripping head and shoulders contemplatively, “dry yourself. Next time I’ll hit you.”
There was a light in his eyes and a glad song in his heart as the other obeyed, quickly enough and without further resistance. “The luck,” Mannering told himself, “is running my way so much that I’m beginning to wonder whether it is luck — or destiny.”
“And now tell me all about it,” he said aloud.
The man’s lips twitched. He was an ill-favoured ruffian, old, the ex-pug type at its worst, but there was no fight left in him. His nose, where the full force of the door had caught him, was swollen, red, and angry, and there was a bruise on his chin corresponding with the break on Mannering’s knuckles.
