John Creasey - Meet The Baron
Bristow felt very satisfied with himself.
He was as worried as he had ever been by the continual thefts, for he was no nearer a solution of the mystery than he had been weeks before, and the idea of getting Mannering’s help had struck him as a brain-wave. Mannering was rich; Mannering was sound. Plender, one of the most respected and reputable solicitors, vouched for him. Bristow would no more have dreamed of suspecting Mannering of being the thief than he would have dreamed of suspecting that the Dowager Lady Kenton had stolen her own bauble.
“Yes,” repeated the detective, “you can do just what you like, Mr Mannering — within reason, that is — and I can assure you that you will get all the help I can give you.”
Mannering nodded thoughtfully, forcing back an absurd desire to guffaw.
“You’re absolutely at a loss?” he asked.
Bristow made no bones about it.
“Absolutely,” he confirmed. “I’ve tackled the servants, and all of them seem all right. I’ve been inclined to doubt whether it’s always the outside job that it seems to be, but everything certainly points that way.”
Mannering pursed his lips.
“Supposing we run over some of the — er — jobs?” he suggested. “I could see your angle, and perhaps work better. I might as well do it thoroughly,” he added, with a smile, “if I’m going to do it at all.”
Old Bill was more pleased than ever. Mannering was intelligent enough to realise that the police angle was important; obviously he had no objection to learning, and he was certainly putting his best into the job. The detective warmed to the other man.
And Mannering warmed to the detective.
He had always heard that old Bill Bristow was popular, and he had been surprised to learn that the men who had been in prison for periods ranging from a month to seven years often had a good word for the sprucely dressed Inspector. He could understand why. Bristow did his job humanely; he treated a rogue as a man, and was always friendly.
Mannering was feeling sorry for Bristow too. It was the richest thing that the Baron could have conceived, and he enjoyed the next hour more than any he had spent for a long time. This meeting and arrangement, he knew, would give him the one thing he lacked — confidence when he was with other people connected with the robberies as Mannering and not Baron.
“First,” Bristow said, “you had best know we’re dubbing our man “the Baron”.”
Mannering frowned and asked the obvious “Why?”
He learned of the pawn-ticket and the things Bristow had discovered about the Baron’s activities; and he learned that Superintendent Lynch had first stopped talking of Baron, and added the “the”; for this Mannering was particularly grateful.
For an hour he went over with the policeman the various thefts that had taken place in houses visited by the Fauntley circle. He discovered just how much Bristow had done to find the thief. He learned the usual formalities, the regular system; and he could see where the routine work had been bound to fail to surmount the difficulties of the problem.
It was an illuminating conference. Mannering felt, as they finished and leaned back in their chairs, that he would be able to outwit Bristow in a dozen different ways. It was as perfect a joke as he had ever met, and the only thing which spoiled it was the fact that he was forced to keep it to himself.
Old Bill accepted a cigarette as he stopped talking.
“So you see,” he said, as two streams of smoke went towards the ceiling, “that you’ve a pretty stiff job on, Mr Mannering. Whenever possible you want to be near the lighting-switch.”
“I can manage,” said Mannering, with a smile.
“And yet be unobserved,” said Bristow.
“I could try,” murmured Mannering.
An unassuming fellow, thought Bristow.
“Is there any — er — place where you think there might be trouble in the near future?” Mannering put the question idly.
Bristow scowled at that.
“I’m not sure,” he said. “Of course, there’s the Overndon wedding . . .”
“H’m,” murmured Mannering.
“I will say one thing about the Americans,” said Bristow, “and that’s that they’re thorough. Er — you know about the affair?”
Mannering nodded. He had discovered, since Jimmy Randall’s visit that afternoon, that Marie Overndon was marrying Frank Wagnall, of the Brooklyn Wagnalls. Wagnall, with his parents and with several friends, was in London for the season — and a little longer than the season — and the high spot o; their visit now was the marriage. Mannering did not know the Wagnalls, but he had heard that they were reputed to be very rich.
What bitterness he had felt towards Marie had completely gone, although the effect of that month at Overndon Manor remained in part, of course. It had completely changed him, and it had started him in this mad game of chance. In many ways he was glad. There was something exhilarating in it, a zest he had never before experienced. The very fact of sitting in Bristow’s office discussing crimes which he himself had committed was more stimulating than any spirit.
But he did feel that Marie Overndon’s wedding would give him an excellent opportunity for a haul larger than anything he had made, excepting for the Rosa pearls; and there would be more than a little malicious pleasure in it.
He stopped reflecting as Bristow went on.
“Very thorough, like most Americans. This man Wagnall — the father, not the son — has asked us for a guard, and he’s using Dorman’s Agency too. The presents will be nearly as safe as the Grown Jewels.”
“Nearly?” questioned Mannering, easing himself in his chair,
Bristow scowled, and rubbed his chin.
“I’m not happy about the Baron,” he said. “He’s slick. We’ve got to admit that.”
Mannering nodded, and had difficulty in repressing the “thank you” that came to his lips.
“There’s one thing,” said Bristow more cheerfully, “which suggests that he won’t try anything at the wedding. He’s never tried anything big.”
“Yet,” said Mannering, and thought suddenly of Lorna Fauntley.
Bristow’s scowl returned.
“That’s what I’m worried about,” he admitted. “I’m afraid he will, one day.”
Mannering decided that it was wise to hedge away from that angle of the affair, and he lost no time.
“What makes you think there might be trouble at the Overndon show?” he demanded. “It’s not the only wedding; the Chunnley affair and the Forsters. . . .”
“It’s the publicity,” said Bristow. “You’ll find the Overndon wedding at the top of every social column. The others are also-rans. And some of the gifts . . .”
“Asking for trouble, are they?” murmured Mannering sympathetically.
“Yes,” said Bristow, “but, as I say, I’ve got to admit that they’re taking every possible precaution. Er-you’ll be there, of course ?”
“It can be arranged,” said Mannering.
“I’d be awfully glad if you will,” said Bristow.
Mannering nodded, and stood up. They shook hands, before a uniformed man showed Mannering out of the office, led him along the passages of the Yard, and guided him eventually into Parliament Street. The sergeant treated him with considerable respect, for friends of Detective-Inspector William Bristow were men of importance at Scotland Yard.
Mannering gathered that impression, and told himself that he mattered in more ways than one. He wondered, not for the first time, what Bristow would look like if ever he discovered the truth.
At that moment Mannering wasn’t worried about the possibility of discovery. He felt safer than the Bank of England as he called a taxi and made his way to the Elan to celebrate the occasion, he told himself cheerfully. He was on top of the world that day.
It was not difficult to ensure an invitation from the Overndons for the wedding, as he had guessed.
Mannering had discovered that Lady Mary and Marie were staying at Colonel George Belton’s town house in Park Square. When in London Belton’s visits to his club were made with clockwork regularity, and on the morning following the talk with Bristow Mannering walked to the Square, expecting to see the Colonel. He met his man — the first time they had seen each other since the affair at Overndon Manor — and for the moment the Colonel stood still, staring, and obviously at a loss. Mannering’s smile put him at his ease.
They shook hands warmly.
“Very pleasant to see you again,” said the Colonel, whose moustache was whiter than ever and whose complexion was, if anything, a trifle more rosy. “Lady Mary’d be glad to see you, John. Why not. . .”
It was typical of the soldier, thought Mannering with a smile, to do his best to put his foot in it. But as the younger man wanted the foot just where it was he nodded.
“How’s everybody?” he asked, as they turned towards the house.
“Excellent, excellent,” said the Colonel. “Marie — harr — umph — is out of town for a couple of days. Er” — the older man swallowed hard — “you know, of course, about . . .”
“Marie,” said Mannering with a laugh. “Yes — that’s why I’m so interested.”
They chatted for some minutes in the house before Lady Mary came in. She looked as sharp as ever, and for her bluntness Mannering had nothing but admiration.
“I was afraid,” she said after the mutual greeting, “you were going to be cinema-esque about that affair, and go off after big game or the chorus. It’s satisfying to find you so individual, John.”
Mannering laughed easily. Lady Mary, he noticed, still wore the frocks thai good Queen Victoria had thought chic, still looked severe, arrogant, and bad-tempered; her voice was still rather low, her words uttered slowly, and all the time there was a twinkle in her fine grey eyes.
“All habits get old-fashioned,” he said cheerfully. “Let’s forget it, shall we?”
The others agreed, and Mannering spent a pleasant hour.
He was preparing to go when another caller arrived, and he met the man who — although he could not guess it then — was going to loom very large in his future adventures.
“Hallo, Gerry!” greeted the Colonel. “Ha, Mannering, you haven’t met — no? Well — Gerry Long from America, Boston. Gerry — John Mannering. . . .”
Long was tall, lean-hipped, wide-shouldered, and pleasant-faced. Like many Americans, he looked nearer twenty-one than twenty-seven, an impression fostered by his corn-coloured hair and his very light skin. He had a free-and-easy attitude, and an easier laugh; Mannering liked him instantly.
“I’ve been told,” said Long cheerfully, “that no man knows England — London especially — as well as you, Mannering.”
“You’ve been told wrong,” smiled the other.
Colonel Belton haw-hawed.
“Don’t you believe it, Gerry, don’t believe it. The young limb’s been painting London red for — for . . .”
“Centuries,” suggested Lady Mary sweetly.
“Nonsense!” snapped the Colonel, who was still easily baited by Lady Mary. He saw the gleam in her eyes and grinned. “You never leave me alone, Mary, you . . .”
“This is quite like old tlmes,” said Mannering, with real warmth.
“You’ve a reputation,” persisted Belton, as though establishing the fact beyond all shadow of doubt, “and you can’t deny it, Mannering. Let me see — aren’t you dabbling in stones these days ?”
Gerry Long looked interested, Mannering thought, as he nodded.
“A little; but not a great deal, mind you.”
He received more than he had bargained for during the next hour. (Jerry Long was interested as a collector in stones, and he played his hobby with all the fervour of youth. It was a difficult but interesting hour, and Mannering’s comparatively small knowledge of gems was tested to the utmost. Happily for Mannering the American did most of the talking, and seemed in no way suspicious that the other was an amateur. Mannering learned a great deal that he had not known before, and he told himself that it would be useful in the future.
One of his most serious difficulties had been the telling of genuine jewels from imitation. It was a task that frequently puzzled even the experts, but by cultivating Gerry Long, who had the American thoroughness with detail, he could learn while seeming to pass opinions.
His quickly-begun friendship with Gerry Long had other advantages that were not immediately obvious.
Long was reputedly wealthier than the Wagnalls, and, indeed, he had control of an immense fortune left by a trust-manipulating father. If anything had been needed to convince the interested hangers-on of Society that John Mannering was one of the moneyed few, it was supplied by his association with the young American.
Mannering was more convinced than ever of his lucky star. He liked Long was drawn by the American’s quick enthusiasm, by his determination — which was almost grim — to make the best of a six months” sojourn in England. And he decided, very quickly, that Long was one of the few people he would not rob.
“It’s almost as if I still had a conscience,” Mannering told himself in front of the mirror at the Elan some weeks later. “Well, to-morrow we shall see. . . .”
The morrow was the day of days for Marie Overndon and Frank Wagnall, of America. Gerry Long was to be best-man. Lorna Fauntley, rather surprisingly, was to be one of seven bridesmaids, chiefly through the influence of the Dowager Countess of Kenton.
Bristow’s mention of publicity was more than justified, and the Overndon wedding was without doubt one of the outstanding events of the year. John Mannering was to be one of many honoured guests. He used the word “honoured” when talking to himself, and there was a rather grim smile at the corners of his mouth.
Marie Overndon looked very lovely.
She was dressed in white, and as Mannering saw her walking from the altar he remembered vividly the preciousness of that month at the Manor. He remembered too the half-promises and his belief in her. But he viewed it all with the air of a cynic. He knew that beneath her serene beauty there was a brittle hardness; he reminded himself that if he had been rich, instead of — comparatively — poor, he himself and not Frank Wagnall would have been walking with her to the strain: that breathed o’er Eden.
Marie was entirely self-possessed. She saw him, he knew, but looked past him. Was there the slightest suggestion of a smile on her lips, or was his imagination playing him tricks?
Mannering looked at the man.
Wagnall had many points in common with Gerry Long. He was tall, fair-haired, lithe, and passably good-looking; he carried his clothes easily, and he looked as pleased with life as most people thought he should be. He also looked young.
Mannering, smiling slightly, watched them disappear from the church, and then told himself that he would be busy in the very near future. The last echoing notes from the great organ seemed to keep his thoughts company.
CHAPTER TWELVE
TWO SETS OF PEARLS
COLONEL GEORGE BELTON HAD OFFERED HIS HOUSE TO THE Overndons for the wedding, and he had helped the Wagnalls to make a good job of it. The old place looked positively lively where, a few months before, it had been comparatively deserted. The servants, many imported for the occasion, were resplendent in livery, and they knew how to smile. To Mannering there seemed as many menservants as there were guests, and he knew that there were over a thousand guests.
