John Creasey - Meet The Baron
Mannering chuckled. His companion saw the flash of his white teeth, the fascinating — that was the right word! — gleam in his eyes. A cloud passed through hers, lingering for a few moments.
Mannering affected not to notice it.
“When and where?” he asked.
“Langford Terrace,” said Lorna. “Do you know, I think the Fauntley stock has gone up several points since it put a collar round you.”
“How sweetly you express it!” said Mannering.
Lorna laughed, but there was bitterness in her eyes and in her expression. Mannering did not pretend not to notice it j this time only a fool could have failed.
“Lorna,” he said quietly. “H’m-h’m?”
“Do you think, one day soon, we could talk of marriage?”
There was silence for a moment. Her eyes filled with something which was closely akin to fear. Her voice lacked its usual steadiness as she spoke.
“Please,” she said, “please don’t, ever. I’m not the marrying kind, John. Forget it, will you?”
Mannering eyed her reflectively.
He knew that he would not have agreed if his reputed wealth had been real; lie was beginning to realise that Lorna Fauntley, so self-reliant, rebellious, competent, graceful withal, and beautiful with that dark, stormy beauty which had intrigued him when he had first met her, now obsessed him. There was mystery in her smouldering eyes, and challenge. She seemed to suffer, and Mannering, with his knowledge of the months which had followed his visit to Overndon Manor, believed that he understood the cause of that suffering.
But he nodded slowly; they spoke of other things.
It was on the following day that Mannering looked at himself in a mirror, the dressing-table mirror in his bedroom at the Elan Hotel.
“You’re a prize ass, J. M.” he said quietly. (The habit of talking to himself had commenced soon after his first excursion into the territory of other people’s property, and he indulged in it more and more as time went on.) “A gold-medallist in fools. You went into this because you made an ass of yourself over a woman; you can’t want to get out of it because of another. Oh, I know she’s different; I know the thing’s taboo between us; I know . . . Stop it, J. M.! You can’t get out. Or if you do, you’re scuppered. Do you get that ? Scuppered, or as near as makes no difference. One day, if you make enough, yes . . .”
He broke off suddenly, and started as a tap came on the door of the outer room.
He looked at himself in the mirror again. His face had paled a little, and his lips were very close together. He was jumpy. The tap on the door had scared him momentarily. Odd how his nerves were a long way from steady — outside his job.
He lit a cigarette as he walked into the outer room and called, “Come in.” The door opened, more slowly than usual. Mannering felt his blood racing; there were times when he dreaded unexpected visitors, and fancied Bristow, for instance, putting awkward questions. Now . . .
“Damn!” he muttered again, and then exploded: “Jimmy, you smothering son of a . . .”
“You leave my ancestry alone,” said Jimmy Randall cheerfully. He was a well-built man, fleshier than Mannering, but not fat; his face was pleasantly proportioned, although few would have called him handsome. But the lazy grin on his lips and in his eyes endeared him to most people.
“Just why,” inquired Mannering, with some warmth, “did you come in like that?”
Randall cocked his head and frowned.
“Hump! You’re not well, J. M. That was a joke.”
“A joke?”
“Don’t Wodehouse me,” retorted Randall; “and for the love of Mike give me a cigarette.”
Mannering offered his case, and extended his lighter gravely. He realised that Randall was in humorous mood, and Jimmy Randall on such occasions was impossible and thick-skinned. Randall sent a stream of smoke towards the ceiling, and then grinned, howbeit with a certain nervousness.
“I’ll?” asked Mannering sympathetically.
Randall nodded, and then shook his head. That there was something worrying him Mannering could see, and he felt uneasy. This was one of the sides of his new life that he found worrying — the constant fear that someone — friend or foe didn’t matter — had guessed or learned of his activities.
“No,” said Randall at last. “I was — I was wondering, J. M., whether you’d like to come down to Somerset for a week or two.”
“That must be why you cracked that joke just now,” said Mannering soberly. He frowned a Little. “What is worrying you ?” he demanded.
Randall laughed, as if relieved at the thought that the other had hall guessed.
“Well, I — it’s some time now since Toby and I tried to . . .”
“Set my feet on the strait and narrow path. Look here” — Mannering seemed genuinely apprehensive — “is this becoming a life’s habit?”
“Well,” said Randall, easing his collar, “not exactly. What I’m really trying to get out — but you’re such a funny cuss I don’t know how to put it — is that an old fla — friend of yours is due in town at the end of the week. And . . .”
“An old flame,” mused Mannering. “Muni, Madaline, Alice
Randall shook his head, and Mannering scowled, uncertain whether this was a further display of the other’s humour. The idea seeped into his mind slowly, and the smile gradually disappeared. He hardly realised that his body had gone rigid, and that his face was set very grimly. Then he laughed — a forced laugh without a trace of humour.
“You mean — Marie Overndon ?”
“Yes,” said Randall, eyeing his friend closely. Mannering was smiling easily enough; after that first moment he seemed to have complete control over himself, and Randall breathed more freely.
“Everything else apart,” he said, “I thought I’d better tell you. Every time she’s been in town lately you’ve been away, but now . . .”
“Mere chance that I’ve missed her,” said Mannering. “But what’s the real trouble?”
Randall shrugged his shoulders, and Mannering knew that there was something more than the fact of Marie Overndon’s visit to London.
“She’s getting married,” Randall blurted out at last, and he coloured furiously.
Mannering widened his eyes and laughed, fully under control now.
“The devil she is! And the man?”
“One of Lady Kenton’s new Americans.”
“Speed !” Mannering laughed, and lit another cigarette. “Money and . . .” Randall grinned, reassured now. “Anyhow, if you’d like to go down to Somerset for a week or two, old boy, use me. I mean, the Kentons and the Fauntleys are pretty thick, and you’ll never be able to side-step the wedding and what-not So . . .”
“Now, that wedding,” said Mannering, cheerfully and hopefully, “should be something special, with Lady Mary on the one side, the Dowager on the other, and the almighty dollar overlooking all. It ought to be terrific, Jimmy !”
“But I thought,” said Randall, “that you . . .”
“Would wilt under the blow.” Mannering’s smile told nothing. “I might have; I won’t now.”
“You’re a funny animal,” said Jimmy Randall judicially. “I can’t make you out lately.”
“It’s my complex,” said Mannering comfortingly, “and your digestion. Have you seen Toby lately?”
“Yes, and then again no,” said Randall. “I went along to see him this morning, but I was beaten by a short head by some police fellow. Bloke named Bristow.”
“Bristow?” Mannering echoed the word, and the room seemed misty. “I seem to know the name . . .” He grinned, making an effort that he would not have believed himself capable of a few weeks before. Bristow and Plender together — good God! “Of course, the Kenton brooch fellow. Have you heard about that, Jimmy . . .”
“Has anybody in London escaped it?” groaned Randall. Mannering sat and smoked for twenty minutes alter his friend’s departure, and there was only one thought in his mind. He voiced it to himself slowly.
“Now, why is Bristow visiting Toby?” he demanded. “There can’t be any connection, of course, but . . .”
He stuck at that “but”. There was no reason for imagining Bristow’s visit to the lawyer was not a coincidence, but at that time Mannering’s immersion into the cold water of his game was comparatively new; frequently it made him shiver. He waited at the hotel for half an hour, almost expecting the telephone-bell to ring or Bristow and Plender to enter the apartment. It was sheer funk, he admitted to himself The robbery at Streatham, the jewels he had sold to Grayson, the affair of Bristow at the pawnshop, all seemed to carry the very letters of his name. He had. been concerned in them. It was absurd to think that Bristow and the others had been hoodwinked, madness to think that the name Baron deceived them.
“For God’s sake,” he muttered suddenly, “get on top of yourself! If you must do something telephone Toby, talk to him, get it over . . .”
For the third time that afternoon he looked at himself in the mirror, and now he saw the film of sweat on his forehead. He smiled suddenly, and the mirror grinned back at him sardonically.
“Your biggest trouble,” he said, “is going to be keeping yourself in hand, J. M.”
He felt steadier as he acted on his decision, left the hotel, and taxied to the Chancery Lane offices of Toby Plender. Plender was in, cheerful and more Punch-like than ever.
“I suppose you couldn’t get mixed up in a scandal of some kind, could you?” he inquired, as they shook hands. “It would look good. Solicitors to Mr John Mannering — Plender, Son, and Plender. A little notoriety helps even sober lawyers.”
“I’m so hectically idle these days that I couldn’t fit it in,” Mannering said. “And, anyhow, I sacked my solicitor a long time ago.”
Plender smiled at the thrust. His eyes bored into Mannering — or so Mannering thought.
“Did you, then ?” he said, and shrugged his shoulders. “By the way . . .”
For some reason Mannering’s mouth was dry, and his face, although Plender noticed nothing, was very drawn.
“I had a visit from a would-be friend of yours this morning,” Plender finished.
Mannering stared. He tried to make the stare look intelligent, but something was hammering inside his mind, an insistent warning. It had come as a shock, even though he told himself he had half-expected it. But why was Toby so friendly ?
“A would-be what ?” he managed to ask at last.
“Friend. At least, acquaintance. Do you know Old Bill at all?”
“Old Bill? . . .”
“Bristow,” said Plender, pushing cigarettes across his desk. “Obviously you don’t.”
“You mean the policeman ?” Mannering was surprised by the evenness of his voice. “The poor devil who’s handling the Kenton brooch job ?”
“The same,” chuckled Plender.
Mannering’s mind cleared suddenly. If Toby Plender knew anything he wouldn’t be talking like this, and that smile wouldn’t be in his eyes. Something had happened out of the ordinary, but it wasn’t anything which connected h m, Mannering, with the recent robberies; the relief made him feel almost light-headed, but he spoke casually enough.
“What’s he after?” he asked.
Plender chuckled again.
“An amateur detective,” he said. “He’s noticed that you and one or two others have always been present — nearly always, anyhow — when a job’s been done. Do you know what a “job” is?”
“I’ve an idea,” smiled Mannering. The truth was gradually dawning, the amazing, incredible truth.
“Well,” went on Plender, “Bristow’s got an idea that one of the servants is the culprit. He can’t follow the Fauntley crowd round the country — they do shift a bit. J. M. — and he wondered whether I thought you would care to keep an eye open.”
“Not me!” gasped Mannering.
Plender chuckled, and his chin nearly met his nose.
“Yes, he’s serious. He asked me — knowing that I know you well — whether I thought you’d jib at the idea. Apparently it’s entirely his own, without any official sanction, and he’s not sure whether you’ll take the suggestion nicely or whether you’re another Lady Kenton
“Eh?” asked Mannering bemusedly.
“In a manner of speaking,” said Plender. “Well — curse you, J. M.!” He broke off, and grinned, for Mannering was red in the face. His body was quivering, and he was pressing his hands against his sides, hard. For a full three minutes he sat back in his chair, heaving; it was one of those absurd, infectious laughs that stopped for a split second and then went on again. Plender grinned, chuckled, and started to laugh with his friend. The absurdity of it made his laugh convulsive.
“Oh — my — Lord!” gasped Mannering, as the convulsions subsided. “I’m sorry — Toby — but I just — saw the funny side of it! Oh — my — Lord!”
CHAPTER ELEVEN
MARIE OVERNDON’S WEDDING
“YOU QUITE APPRECIATE, MR MANNERING,” SAID DETECTIVE-Inspector William Bristow, “that it’s entirely an idea of my own. I hardly like to approach you, but the thefts are getting more frequent. The presence of regular men might act as a deterrent; I’d much rather catch the thieves red-handed, though. They won’t for a moment suspect you of working with the police.”
“They ?” queried John Mannering.
“He’s smart,” thought Bristow to himself. Aloud: “Yes, there may be more than one, I fancy, but I’ll admit I’m completely in the dark.” He chuckled, not entirely with humour. “The Press calls it “baffled”, and that isn’t far wrong.”
Mannering, sitting in the small office of the detective at Scotland Yard, lit a cigarette thoughtfully and flicked the match out of the open window. His expression was serious; mentally he was going through similar convulsions to those which had seized him in Toby Plender’s office two hours before. He had called at Scotland Yard, to discover that Bristow was only too pleased by the eagerness with which he proffered his help, and it was too early for him fully to appreciate the joke.
“It is a bit of a poser,” he admitted. “To tell you the truth. Inspector, I’ve been tempted to try my hand at solving it before, but I didn’t want to tread on any official corns.”
“I can relieve you of that worry,” said Bristow, feeling very cheerful. He had heard a great deal of John Mannering, and he was thinking that the rumours had not been exaggerated. Mannering was a distinguished man and an intelligent one. By saying that he had been tempted to try his own hand at solving the mystery of the thefts he had put the detective at his ease immediately. It would not be a case of doing a service for Bristow — and Bristow disliked being under an obligation to any man — it would be a matter of equal interests; by giving Mannering semi-official authority to make inquiries Bristow had pleased Mannering as much as Mannering had pleased him.
Bristow felt very satisfied with himself.
