Hide the Baron (8 page)

 

He was a shorter man than Mannering, young, hard eyed. The knife was in his right hand, held just in front of him, dagger fashion. He lunged, as soon as the door was open, and the knife should have buried itself in Mannering. Mannering flung himself to one side, felt the blade catch in his coat, and smashed his right fist at the ‘policeman's' face. The man backed away, gasping.

Mannering snatched at the wrist above the knife. He felt the other screw himself up for a desperate effort. For a moment they stood together, grunting, straining to get the knife.

Mannering knew that if he failed, he would be killed.

The other man's left hand was at his wrist, twisting, thrusting his arm upwards. Mannering was forcing the man's hand downwards so that the point of the knife was thrust towards the floor. They hardly moved; just steeled themselves for greater effort. Sweat gathered on their foreheads. If he relaxed, even if he shouted, Mannering knew that the other would have that vital moment that he needed for the kill.

Then Mannering butted the ‘policeman' on the nose, and as the man sagged back, twisted the bony wrist. He felt the finger tendons relax, and heard the knife clatter. He struck again, savagely. The ‘policeman' staggered away, doubled up with pain, very close to the top of the stairs. He couldn't stop himself, and Mannering couldn't stop him. The ‘policeman' fell backwards from the head of the stairs, then thudded down to the first landing.

Mannering stood at the top, breathing very hard.

For a few seconds, nothing happened or moved. Then he saw that the man was lying very still, and his neck seemed to be oddly twisted. Slowly, Mannering went downstairs. Next he heard the street door open, and a man called up: “Everything all right there?”

Mannering drew a deep breath.

“Come—up,” he called.

He reached the man who lay in that oddly shaped heap. He felt quite sure what had happened, it was plain to see. He couldn't possibly blame himself, but deep bitterness built up inside him, going as deep as bitterness and self-reproach could go.

This man was dead.

The man who'd just come in, a Yard man on street duty, came at the double. He slackened his pace when he saw the ‘policeman', looked into Mannering's bleak eyes, and started to excuse himself. He had actually spoken to the man, asked him what Division he'd come from; the letters on his uniform had tallied with his story; he couldn't be blamed …

“No one's blaming you,” Mannering said tautly. “No one's blaming anybody.”

But a man who might have talked was dead.

 

By the middle of the morning the police were able to say that the dead man was a Peter Arthur Byall, with a record for robbery with violence. He had been in France for some months, and had only just returned to England. He had rooms at Highgate, where his landlady swore that she knew nothing about him. He also had a motorcycle, and might be the man who had stabbed Lorna. A call went out for anyone who knew anything about his movements during the past few weeks, but there was no response.

 

“The one inescapable thing is that you can't feel safe anywhere,” Bristow said. “If they really mean to get you, they can strike from a dozen places and use a dozen foul tricks.” He looked into Mannering's face, badly shaken because the man he had sent to watch Mannering had fallen down on his job; and because he felt quite sure that Mannering was in acute danger. “After this, I feel quite sure they mean to kill you. Everything else being even, they will.”

“Job's comforter,” Mannering said. “Two attempts have failed.”

“I'm sick and tired of arguing with a pig-headed fool,” Bristow rasped. “I know what you
feel,
and I hate having to say what I'm saying. But given a man who is determined to kill you at all costs, there's no way in which we can guarantee your safety. Know what I think you ought to do?”

Mannering said slowly, softly: “Go on.”

“If I had my way, you'd be out of the country in a few hours' time.”

“You forget—”

“I don't forget Lorna or anything or anyone,” Bristow said. “Lorna's still keeping going. The last I heard from the hospital, they were optimistic. You can keep in touch by telephone. But whether you stay in the country or not, you've got to leave this flat, keep away from Quinns, keep under cover.”

Mannering just looked at him.

“The same applies to Joanna Woburn,” Bristow said. “I'd pack the pair of you off, if—”

“Bill,” said Mannering, in a soft, smooth voice, “I think you may have got something. I really do. Lie low. Disappear.” He began to smile. “Why not? I needn't leave England, need I? You don't really expect me to, that was just to impress me with the depth of your feeling.” He laughed, with a burst of excitement. “I could do two jobs at the same time, Bill, look after Joanna Woburn and probe into the problem of Jimmy Garfield. Be useful to know who'll inherit if he dies. Found his will yet?”

“No.”

“Who are his solicitors?”

“Hodderburn, White and Hodderburn, of Lincoln's Inn,” Bristow said. “They've been handling his legal affairs for seven or eight years. Know them?”

“I believe I know the junior Hodderburn,” said Mannering. “I think he might be prepared to play ball, too.” He looked and felt almost excited as he moved about the flat. “Supposing I turn myself into a lawyer, Bill, and go down to look after Garfield's interests while he's on the danger list and George Merrow's
hors de combat?
”

Bristow didn't speak.

“And we could tell the world or the newspapers that I've had to go abroad, or been warned off by the cops,” said Mannering. Gaiety was back in his eyes; for a few moments, he felt as if all the fear had gone, all the frustrations were over. The mood would soon go, but he would probably never be in the same slough of despond. “Bless your old heart, you've scored a bull. Exit, John Mannering. Enter, a junior Hodderburn! I needn't be one of the family, of course, provided I'm one of the firm.” He actually chuckled, as if delighted. “How does it strike you?”

“In anyone else, I'd say you were crazy,” Bristow said, heavily. “In you—”

They didn't speak.

The years that they had known each other seemed to come between them, with all the things they knew about each other. Mannering was quite sure of the trend of Bristow's thoughts, could imagine how the irony of the situation affected him. But Bristow would have only one purpose; to help him, and get to the heart of the matter.

“John,” Bristow said at last, “Joanna Woburn knows you, Aylmer knows you, several of the police down there saw you the other morning. They're mostly trained observers. I don't think you'd get away with a disguise.”

“Don't you?” asked Mannering softly. “Don't you, Bill?”

“No.”

“I think we'll put it to the test,” Mannering said.

“Will you have a word with Hodderburn, White and Hodderburn and tell them how highly respectable you think I am?” He couldn't repress a chuckle. “Of course, you're taking a lot of risks, for Brook House is full of priceless treasures. I might stage the biggest ever robbery, and get away with it. Who knows?”

Bristow said: “First, you have to get under cover. We can think about this crazy idea afterwards.”

“Bill,” declared Mannering firmly, “it's a deal. If you won't fix it with the solicitors, I'll find a way—with them, with an insurance company, with someone who knows Garfield. I'll be near Joanna. They'll probably have a cut at her, and—” He didn't finish.

“You can see how well it would work as well as I can.”

“No man can disguise himself so well that he can't be recognised,” Bristow objected.

“Bill,” said Mannering again, “I'll talk to you, face to face as now, and you'll never know it.”

 

William Bristow drove more slowly than usual towards Scotland Yard and, when he reached it, sat at the wheel for a few minutes before getting out.

He was in the middle fifties, not so springy as he had been, and looking very grim, almost dour. He had a problem and he didn't know anyone who could share it with him, or make it any lighter.

In the past few years, there had been many retirements and not a few changes at the Yard. He was one of the old brigade. He was, in fact, the only man now on the staff of the Criminal Investigation Department who knew beyond any shadow of doubt that John Mannering was the Baron.

He was one of the few who remembered the days of the Baron vividly. He had cause to. As a comparatively new Inspector, he had first clashed with the jewel-thief who had taken London by storm. Looking back, it was easy to see it in terms of melodrama; and no one who had not lived through the period would quite believe how sensational they had been. Yet here at the Yard, in the files, was a dossier of the Baron, with newspaper cuttings by the thousand. Bristow didn't need to refer to the dossier; he knew it all by heart. He could picture the huge headlines, in inch-high letters of black:

 

BARON ESCAPES AGAIN

THE BARON – RAFFLES OR ROBIN HOOD?

 

They were just samples; the kind of thing one would find in the children's comics of the day, but there had been nothing comical. Paris had suffered the Baron, too, and other capital cities in Europe. They called him jewel-thief extraordinary, and forgot – and it was easy to forget – that he had started just as an ordinary thief, out of the bitterness of a broken romance.

It was easy for Bristow to forget that, too.

It was much simpler to remember the later days, when the bitterness had worn itself out. Then, the public sense of adventure and excitement had been very strong, for the Baron had sought out men of great wealth and robbed them, ruthlessly – and given the proceeds to the poor.

That had gone on for years.

The Baron had been front-page news longer than any man on the wanted list whom Bristow remembered. He'd won the admiration and eventually even the plaudits of a host of people, the good and the bad, and then, he had vanished from the scene.

Soon afterwards, John Mannering, a wealthy man-about-town renowned for his knowledge of precious stones and
objets A'art,
had bought Quinns.

Very few had suspected, and only Bristow had been quite sure, that Mannering and the Baron were one and the same. Bristow had lacked proof. He could think back over the dozens of times when he had worked desperately to find it, when his liking for Mannering had clashed sharply with his Yard's attitude towards the Baron. He had never had to put friendship to the final test; for once he owned Quinns, Mannering stopped working as the Baron; but there were many things he had learned as the Baron, which served him and others well.

Gradually, his reputation had grown as a private detective. He was occasionally consulted by Scotland Yard, because of his specialist knowledge. He had influence and contacts which spread through the East and the West Ends, and probably no man had a better rubbing acquaintance with fences.

Now, he proposed to disguise himself and go to the home of a millionaire which was spilling over with
objets A'art,
antiques and precious stones. Bristow knew that the poacher had turned gamekeeper, but could never be absolutely sure that the gamekeeper wouldn't fall for the temptation of poaching now and again.

This would be thrusting temptation at him.

Whether the Yard gave its blessing or not, Mannering would do what he planned. As the Baron he had specialised in disguises, and everything he had said to Bristol was true; this was the logical thing for him to do.

No one must know, except the solicitors. Ethel, the Mannerings' maid, was away. Lorna would be in hospital for weeks. No one else
need
know, except –

Bristow reached his office, lit a cigarette, sat down heavily and looked at the blue sky through the open window. His Chief Inspector wasn't in, and the only sound came from the Embankment and the river.

“Oh, let him have a go,” Bristow said abruptly. “I'll sell the idea to the A.C., if he says okay, it's okay.”

He jumped up.

He checked the impulse to go along to the Assistant Commissioner's office immediately; he wanted more briefing. Reports by the dozen were on his desk and he read through each, first hopefully, then glumly. The whole of London and the Home Counties had been alerted for the men whom Mannering and Joanna had seen.

Finished, Bristow went to see the A.C., who did not know that Mannering and the Baron were one and the same, and who had none of Bristow's qualms.

“Yes, good idea, I'd say. If he's prepared to risk it and Hodderburns will play, go ahead. Try them, and let me know, will you?”

“Right, sir.” Bristow was brisk. “If it comes off, only you and I should know. The fewer the better.”

“Well, I suppose we can be trusted not to let anything slip,” the A.C. said. He chuckled. Obviously he really thought it a good idea. He didn't dream of Bristow's reservations, knew nothing of what Bristow knew might be an almost unbearable temptation to the man who had been the Baron.

 

 

At half-past one that day, Mannering had a lunch brought in by the Yard man now on duty in Green Street; another was on duty at the back.

At a quarter-past two, Mannering telephoned the hospital again; for the first time, he put down the receiver feeling that the deepest of the anxieties was really over.

“She is really doing very well,” the Day Sister had said. “By tomorrow, I think you'll be able to see her, but not for very long.”

“That's fine,” Mannering had answered. “That's wonderful.”

He put down the receiver, and went to the window, and looked at the distant Thames; it was shimmering; and his eyes were glistening, too. He turned away at last, but didn't go out.

During the afternoon, Bristow telephoned, was carefully formal, said that the project had the approval of the Assistant Commissioner and the co-operation of Hodderbum, White and Hodderburn. It was thought by the solicitors, Bristow said, that he had better go to Brook House as a private inquiry agent, ostensibly employed by them to try to find why Garfield had been attacked, not as a member of the firm. That would give him a freer hand.

“It's building up nicely,” Mannering agreed. “Tomorrow I'm going to see Lorna, and straight after that—”

It was easier to chuckle, now.

Lorna was unconscious, sleeping under a drug. Mannering wasn't surprised by her pallor, and as he looked down at her, he was conscious only of one feeling; a gratitude that it had not been fatal.

He left the hospital about half-past three, and two Yard men followed him. He did not know whether anyone else did. Certainly there was no one whom he recognised.

Yet he felt a keen sense of danger.

He told himself that it was imagination, that because of what he knew, he fancied things which just weren't there. He couldn't be sure. The Yard men, one in a taxi and one in a private car, followed his Rolls-Bentley. He had seldom felt more conspicuous. He drove to Hart Row, and parked the car at a bombed site where he had a special lot. One Yard man got out of the taxi near him, the other parked close by his side.

If he were attacked again, it would be easy to convince his assailants that he had been hurt.

Would he be attacked?

He took it for granted as he walked along Hart Row.

It was warm, yet he felt shivery. The small shops here were all exclusive, and few of the windows had more than half a dozen creations in. One, opposite Quinns itself, was a milliners in which two ostrich feathers, shaped into a bowl, was in solitary glory.

In the window at Quinns was a tiny jewelled crown, blazing with splendour which made even Mannering stop to look. Other people were looking, too, several women gazed in rapt silence.

Mannering didn't go in.

He would be expected here. If anything were to happen, surely it would be at the approach to Quinns – now or later, as he came out. He had that cold, shivery feeling. He was very conscious of the watchful Yard men, one of them looking towards the end of the street, one of them looking up.

Mannering glanced up, too.

The Yard man shouted: “
Look out!
”
as if death were falling from the skies.

Women turned round, in alarm, a man glared. Mannering saw a little black ball coming down from the front window two floors above the hat shop. The Yard man seemed to have gone mad, was thrusting the women away, bellowing at them, actually kicking at a man who tried to stop him. Mannering opened the door of the shop, and shouted

“
In here!
”

Two of the women, terrified, were running wildly towards the end of the street. Two others were jammed in the open doorway of Quinns. Mannering thrust them in and then plunged forward. Then the Yard man did a crazy thing – caught the little black thing, and hurled it away.

It struck a lamp-post, and exploded in mid-air. Pieces of hot metal flew through the air, and Mannering flung up his arms and ‘collapsed'.

In fact, he wasn't hurt.

 

Mannering sat in a small room in a hotel behind the Strand. It was dark outside, but very bright in the room, with specially powerful lamps. At the dressing-table was an elaborate make-up case, open and ready for use. Spread out on the bed were the clothes he would need, and a suitcase ready for packing. His wallet was tight with one-pound notes and he had a reserve supply in the case.

It was nine o'clock.

He was reading the evening papers, and each one did him proud.

 

MANNERING INJURED IN EXPLOSION

BOMB FELLS JOHN MANNERING

BOMB ATTACK ON FAMOUS JEWELLER

 

The stories were varied and highly coloured, and the reading public would assume that it had been an attempt at robbery. The only thing in which all accounts tallied was the courage of the Yard man, Detective Sergeant Broad, and the fact that ‘only John Mannering was injured and he is now lying dangerously ill in a London Nursing Home'.

No one had been caught.

Bristow had told Mannering, by telephone, that the man throwing the grenade had walked into the offices above the hat shop only ten minutes before Mannering had arrived at Quinns; the two people who had seen him couldn't describe him clearly; they did know that he had had a beard.

He had run away during the confusion.

Mannering put the papers down.

He went to the dressing-table, sat at the stool, and adjusted a table light; it shone pitilessly on him. He stripped to the waist, and as he began to work, his muscles rippled, and his movements had the flexibility which Joanna Woburn had been quick to notice.

Gradually, his complexion changed, becoming more florid. Gradually, the shape of his eyes seemed to alter, and his face looked fuller. He worked with a single mindedness which nothing interrupted. A touch of stain here worked in with great care, one which only a strong spirit and detergent could remove; a lotion which dried the skin at the corners of his eyes and his lips, and gave them a wrinkled look.

All of these things he did with inordinate care.

A different man appeared to be gazing at him from the mirror.

He eased his shoulders, after a while, then picked up a small wing mirror and held it so that he could examine the sides of his face and the back of his neck. He had been to a barber, before coming here, and his hair was cut very close, so close that only the faintest suggestion of a crink appeared in it.

Now, he combed and brushed in a dye which made it look iron grey.

He slipped two cheek pads, kept in place by suction, into position, and at once his cheeks looked much plumper. Then he worked some thin plastic over his teeth, hiding their whiteness, giving them a yellowish look and altering their appearance completely.

Next, he went into the private bathroom, and washed thoroughly. He examined himself afterwards with close scrutiny. The disguise hadn't shifted at all.

Next, he put on the clothes.

They had been specially made, years ago, by a little tailor who had had good reason to be grateful to the Baron. They were loose fitting, and cunningly cut to alter the shape of his shoulders, to give him inches more round the waist, and make it look as if he were stooping. He had complete freedom of movement, but a man in the middle-fifties, not the early forties, stared at himself in the mirror.

He began to smile as he worked his lips about to make sure that the lines stayed on, and none of the disguise wanted patching.

It didn't.

He put on a pair of brown shoes, which had been heavily mended, and had crepe rubber heels; they didn't make a sound, and made his feet look sizes larger than they were. He spread his toes in these, as comfortably as in any ordinary pair.

Now, he felt ready.

He left the hotel a little after eleven o'clock, when a night porter who already looked tired asked if he were coming back soon.

“No idea,” Mannering said, “if I don't I'll send for my case.”

“Very good, sir.”

Mannering went out, and towards the Strand. It was pleasantly cool. The noise was all from the West End, there was very little traffic in the Strand when he reached it. He walked briskly, practising a different kind of walk, with his head thrust forward a little. Walk, carriage, voice and mannerisms could all give him away, and it was a long time since he had been forced to live apart as he would be forced to live this.

He reached Trafalgar Square.

Ten minutes later, he waited in the main hall of Scotland Yard, for Bristow; he had sent in the name of Richardson, which would mean nothing at all to the Yard man.

He was kept waiting for ten minutes, then a bulky sergeant came along and said:

“Mr. Bristow can spare you five minutes, if you'll come this way.”

“Ta,” Mannering said, and walked slowly, to the sergeant's obvious impatience. He was taken to one of the waiting-rooms. The sergeant looked bored, Mannering studied some photographs of sporting triumphs of men of the Yard, then lit a cigarette.

The door opened, and Bristow came in.

The man you knew well often behaved like a different person with a stranger. This would show.

If Bristow suspected the truth about this ‘stranger', he didn't reveal it. He looked tired, but his manner was friendly; Bristow wasn't the bullying type.

“Now what can I do for you, Mr. Richardson?”

“As a matter of fact, Mr. Bristow,” Mannering said in a voice which was not remotely like his own, “I've got a bit of info, for you, that I think you'll be glad about.”

Bristow said almost wearily: “So it's a squeal.”

“You can call it a squeal or you can call it what you like,” Mannering said. He looked straight into Bristow's eyes; less than four feet, separated them, beneath a searching light. “It's about the Mile End Road job, last week. You know, when the kid was croaked. I don't hold with violence, and I don't want anything for my trouble, either. You interested?”

The tiredness faded from Bristow's eyes. The sergeant was no longer bored, but had his notebook out and pencil at the ready.

“Yes, very,” Bristow said. “Let's have it.”

Mannering said: “You ought to look for a man with red hair, Mr. Bristow. I've got a hot tip, that a man with red hair was taking a good dekko at that shop on the afternoon of the burglary. Then when he broke in the kid woke up, and you know what happened. Red hair, that's the info. You know about that?”

Bristow slid neatly out of that question.

“We'll check. Where did you get the information from, Mr. Richardson?”

“That's my business,” Mannering retorted, almost truculently. “The thing is, it's right. And I don't hold with violence, especially against a kid of nine years of age. Mind you, they shouldn't ever have let him stay alone in the house, but you know how it is.” He stood up. “That's the lot, Mr. Bristow, thanks for listening.”

“Have you got Mr. Richardson's name and address?” Bristow asked the sergeant.

“They have in the hall, sir.”

“Good.” Bristow put out a hand. “We'll check this at once, and be in touch with you if anything develops,” he said crisply. “And we'll treat it as confidential, you can rely on that.”

“Oh, I can trust
you,
”
Mannering said. “Can't say that about every ruddy rozzer, but even a bad tree has some good apples!” He grinned.

Bristow saw him as far as the hall.

Mannering went off, and the Yard sent no one after him. He took a taxi to Victoria Station and then walked to a lock-up garage where, for years, he had kept a reserve car which not even the police knew about, and some tools and a gun and ammunition. He fitted the tools, in a specially made band, round his waist, checked that the automatic was loaded, and slipped it into his pocket.

He left the car in the garage, locked up, and took a bus along Victoria Street, getting off near the Cathedral. Bristow lived in a big block of flats near by. Mannering waited, went up in the lift, rang the Bristows' bell. He knew Bristow's wife, a tall, pleasant woman. She answered the door, and obviously thought that she was looking at a stranger.

“Is Mr. Bristow in, please?”

“No, he's not, but I'm expecting him any minute,” she said. But she didn't ask him in. “You aren't likely to keep him long, are you?” That came anxiously.

“Five minutes, ma'am,” Mannering assured her.

He was waiting in a small room off the lounge when Bristow arrived. Bristow's footsteps were flagging, he was probably feeling his age. It was well after midnight, and he had almost certainly been at the job since eight o'clock that morning.

“I didn't know whether I ought to have told him to come back in the morning or not,” Mrs. Bristow said worriedly. “I never
do
know what's the right thing to do. He said five minutes, so I suppose it won't be more than a quarter of an hour.”

“Five minutes is the absolute limit,” Bristow grunted. “Pop a kettle on while I see him. What name did he give?”

“Gregory.”

Bristow came into the small room. At sight of ‘Richardson', he actually stopped moving. Bewilderment, then sharp annoyance, crossed his face.

“Now, what's this nonsense about? Are you—”

“No nonsense,” Mannering said in his normal speaking voice. “The red-haired man's true. Bill, too. Think I'll do?”

Bristow didn't answer, just moved to a chair and sat down. He was like that for a long time before he began to smile.

It was nearly ten minutes later, when Mannering was leaving, that Bristow thought belatedly to say: “Before I pass you out, I'd like to see you in daylight.”

“Come to Brook House tomorrow,” Mannering invited. “Meanwhile, tell Aylmer and the police down there that Mr. Richardson has your blessing, and they're safe to co-operate with him, will you?”

“I suppose I'd better,” Bristow said, almost grudgingly.