A Case for the Baron

  Copyright & Information

  A Case for the Baron

  First published in 1945

  © John Creasey Literary Management Ltd.; House of Stratus 1945-2014

  All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted, in any form, or by any means (electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise), without the prior permission of the publisher. Any person who does any unauthorised act in relation to this publication may be liable to criminal prosecution and civil claims for damages.

  The right of John Creasey to be identified as the author of this work has been asserted.

  This edition published in 2014 by House of Stratus, an imprint of

  Stratus Books Ltd., Lisandra House, Fore Street, Looe,

  Cornwall, PL13 1AD, UK.

  Typeset by House of Stratus.

  A catalogue record for this book is available from the British Library and the Library of Congress.

  EAN ISBN Edition

  0755135334 9780755135332 Print

  075513866X 9780755138661 Kindle

  0755136993 9780755136995 Epub

  0755145496 9780755145492 Epdf

  This is a fictional work and all characters are drawn from the author’s imagination.

  Any resemblance or similarities to persons either living or dead are entirely coincidental.

  www.houseofstratus.com

  About the Author

  John Creasey – Master Storyteller - was born in Surrey, England in 1908 into a poor family in which there were nine children, John Creasey grew up to be a true master story teller and international sensation. His more than 600 crime, mystery and thriller titles have now sold 80 million copies in 25 languages. These include many popular series such as Gideon of Scotland Yard, The Toff, Dr Palfrey and The Baron.

  Creasey wrote under many pseudonyms, explaining that booksellers had complained he totally dominated the ‘C’ section in stores. They included:

  Gordon Ashe, M E Cooke, Norman Deane, Robert Caine Frazer, Patrick Gill, Michael Halliday, Charles Hogarth, Brian Hope, Colin Hughes, Kyle Hunt, Abel Mann, Peter Manton, J J Marric, Richard Martin, Rodney Mattheson, Anthony Morton and Jeremy York.

  Never one to sit still, Creasey had a strong social conscience, and stood for Parliament several times, along with founding the One Party Alliance which promoted the idea of government by a coalition of the best minds from across the political spectrum.

  He also founded the British Crime Writers’ Association, which to this day celebrates outstanding crime writing. The Mystery Writers of America bestowed upon him the Edgar Award for best novel and then in 1969 the ultimate Grand Master Award. John Creasey’s stories are as compelling today as ever.

  Chapter One

  As Lorna Mannering replaced the receiver, she heard the front gate close. She stood up so quickly that she knocked her head on a brass lantern hanging from an oak beam. She rubbed the spot gingerly as she hurried to the wide, iron-studded door, ducking beneath another beam which was dark and knotted. A firm footstep sounded on the flagstones.

  At the telephone Lorna had made excuses, despite the insistence of Marion Ley, that the Mannerings should spend the coming weekend at Hadley Grange. She had compromised, undertaking to ‘ask John,’ and from Marion’s honey-sweet tones, had sensed that she was annoyed.

  In repose, Lorna’s face had a sombre expression but her smile was bright as she opened the door.

  John Mannering’s tall figure, khaki-clad, filled the doorway.

  “Hallo, my sweet!”

  “I wonder why it’s just as good to see you pass the window and open the door now as it was three months ago?” asked Mannering, a few moments later. He had an arm about her waist and there was a faint trace of lipstick on his lips.

  “I wonder why I jump up and bang my head every time I hear the front gate close? It must be—”

  “The Hampshire air that suits us?”

  “Or the quaintness of the cottage that cheers us?”

  “Or else—John, it’s so good to be alive!”

  Mannering squeezed her waist, then tossed his hat onto a chair, gloves and cane after them. Only between the dark oak beams which crisscrossed the cream-washed ceiling, could he stand upright; even then, the top of his head touched the distemper.

  Yet the low ceiling added to the room’s charm. Neither of them would have had their first home different. They had rented it furnished, and were fearful lest its owner should want to return to take possession, and set them house-hunting.

  The wide, red-brick inglenook fireplace, with seats on either side, had an iron hook which hung from inside the chimney; from the hook a copper kettle was suspended. The windows were mullioned and the uneven, polished floor was covered with curly woollen rugs.

  Sitting in a winged armchair, Mannering lit a cigarette, crossed his legs, and quizzed his wife.

  “So it’s a good life, without a single shadow? If we can forget the war! Or isn’t that what you meant?”

  “Are we getting too snug here, darling?”

  “Snug?”

  “Rusticating.”

  “If we are, I like it!”

  “You really do?”

  “Now what is all this?” Mannering leaned forward and tapped the ash from his cigarette into a bowl of beaten brass. ‘Oh, I get it! You want a few days in town, to go gay.”

  “We were in London only three weeks ago, it’s not that. John, are you on duty in the morning?”

  “No, Teddy Simpton wants to linger with his blonde W.A.A.F. next weekend; you know these flying women. I’ve changed with him.”

  “So you’re free until Monday,” Lorna said. “If I were superstitious, I’d call it fate!”

  “You have a dark and guilty secret,” accused Mannering.

  “Marion Ley, with another invitation to the Grange.” Lorna spoke hurriedly. “I told her you’d be on duty tomorrow, and that it wasn’t worth going for one night. If we don’t tell her you’re free after all, she’ll learn about it from Teddy. Oughtn’t we to make the effort and go?”

  “Persistent Marion! She must want something we can give.

  “You dislike dear Marion, don’t you? I wonder why? Can you explain likes and dislikes?”

  “Yes. Because she has big house-parties, and lures social lions to the Grange and tries to ignore the war,” Mannering said lightly. “You’re famous, darling, Imagine The Sketch. ‘Among those who spent the weekend at Hadley Grange were Mrs. Mannering and her husband. Mrs. Mannering’s latest portrait, of Field Marshal Thingummy …’”

  “Do you dislike being talked of as my husband?”

  Mannering raised his head and gave a deep, gay laugh.

  “Great Scott, no!” His laughter drove her frown away. “Famous wife, obscure husband – what could be better? I hankered after obscurity for a long time, and certainly don’t want to lose it now. You ought to know that. I wonder if you’re right about her?” Mannering mused. “Wouldn’t you call her the most popular woman of her set in England? You would! She is beautiful and rich, believed to be generous, kindly, and full of good deeds – and yet, I often feel sorry for Bobbie Ley! I do not love the lovely Marion any more than you. We’d better go, though. I wanted to do some clearing up in the garden before the frosts get too sharp.”

  Lorna jumped up. “Come upstairs, darling, I’d like you to see how Cherry is getting on while there’s still some light.”

  They went up the twisting, stairs towards the first landing; next up a narrow, spiral staircase of groaning wood; then through a square aperture like a loft-hole, until they stood in the large attic which sprawled over the whole of the house.

  The attic looked bare and bleak, in spite of
the coconut matting on the floor. At irregular interval posts rose up to the asbestos-covered wooden roof and, in one corner, constantly gurgling and grunting, the cistern hid behind a pair of bright red curtains. Beneath the roof-light stood Lorna’s easel; her palette lay on a high stool in front. Her green smock, daubed and smeared with paint, hung from a hook; colourful rags poked out of one pocket.

  Around the walls, protected against damp by thick cushions, dozens of canvases all faced the wall. The only picture in view was on the easel.

  Mannering stood back and looked at the face of General Sir Edward Cheriton. A powerful face, with a hint of ruthlessness at the eyes and lips which Lorna had caught perfectly; the aggressive chin and the jutting eyebrows seemed real, not painted, and the hard glint in Cheriton’s eyes would have made most people feel that he would be a bad man to come up against. As many knew him, he was a benevolent country gentleman who clung to the past; but Lorna had painted the General as a soldier, not as “Cherry,” and had contrived to hint at the dual nature of the man.

  “Yes, you’ve got him,” Mannering said.

  “I was afraid I’d made him a little too hard. He’ll be in the party. He was Marion’s juiciest bait. On two weekends when you’ve been on duty and she’s known it, she hasn’t troubled to invite me. It’s you she wants.” They were back on the subject, which told him that it obsessed her.

  “Oh, I don’t know. Handsome fellow, with no known vices – fairly tame, especially with ladies, and bound to behave himself with a General on the premises. We’ll know the dark secret in good time. It’ll be amusing to pretend not to see what she’s driving at, too. When are we supposed to go?”

  “She wanted us to catch the six-thirty tonight from Winchester, but I said that was out of the question. It will have to be fairly early in the morning, I suppose. I’ll call her now.” She draped a cloth over Cherry’s face, and went to the telephone, but before she lifted it, Mannering’s hand covered hers. His free arm slid round her waist and crept up to her chin; he forced her head back so that she had to look at him.

  He kissed her, and she kissed back, passionately.

  “What’s the trouble, my darling?”

  “Oh, I’m crazy! I was in Winchester this morning, and thought I saw Bristow, passing in a car.”

  “So that’s it! The past came out and hit you. You’re punch-drunk.” He kissed her again. “Just hit back.”

  In Winchester, not far from the cottage, Superintendent Bristow of New Scotland Yard was in his hotel bedroom. He had come down from London at the request of the local police, and the job was finished. Yet twice, when footsteps sounded outside his door, he looked up hopefully. Each time, they passed. A third time, they stopped; there was a knock.

  “Yes?” called Bristow.

  “The telephone, sir, it’s a trunk call.” A chambermaid in cap and apron opened the door a few inches.

  Bristow hurried down to the telephone booth, in a cubbyhole beneath the stairs.

  He was a man with regular features, yet not quite handsome. Yellow stains on his bristly moustache betrayed the heavy smoker; his clothes, a fastidious man.

  “Bristow speaking. Is that the Yard?”

  “Yes. The Assistant Commissioner wants you, sir.”

  Soon the drawling voice of Sir David Ffoulkes, chief of the C.I.D., broke the silence.

  “Have you cleared up down there, Bristow?”

  “Yes, sir, it’s all over. Any news your end?”

  “Yes. There’s no longer any doubt about it. The big job’s tied up with the jewel business. Here’s something that will please you, too. Shayne has been trying to get Mannering to visit him, at Hadley Grange. You’d better have your own way and see Mannering.”

  Bristow said, “Thanks!” His eyes glowed.

  “I hope you’re on the right track. Mannering has been quiet for a long time, but he is still—”

  “I’m not worried about Mannering erupting again. But he might be lured into this show on our side – if the jewels are—”

  “I’ve just told you that the two things are worked together. I know you think Mannering’s reformed, but he might be on the jewel side of this job, if not the other.”

  “Then we’ll find out. I think he’s the one man who might help us.”

  “All right. But remember we’ve strict Home Office instructions to keep mum about the ugly side. Mannering mustn’t know about that, only about the jewels.”

  “He won’t hear about it from me. Anything else, sir?”

  “No,” said Ffoulkes. “I hope you’re right. Goodbye.”

  Bristow went out to his car. At the wheel, he laughed; a Yard man asking for Mannering’s help was the last word in irony.

  Just blame the war; blame everything on the war. Don’t admit eagerness to give Mannering a chance to redeem his past; that would stop its being a joke, and turn it into folly.

  Chapter Two

  Mannering spent the last half-hour of daylight with Lorna in the garden. They made a combined assault on the wide herbaceous border at the front. There, only dahlias and early chrysanthemums, pallid Michaelmas daisies, and a few tardy lupins and antirrhinums gave a touch of colour. An occasional gust of wind, brought beech and birch leaves floating gently down onto the lawn, which needed cutting.

  In a delighted voice, Marion Ley had promised to have a taxi to meet them at Brockenhurst Station to meet the Winchester train, at eleven o’clock next morning, for in these days of petrol shortage private cars were seldom used. Hadley Grange was seven miles from Brockenhurst, and on the fringe of the lovely New Forest.

  Dusk dimmed the colours when she straightened up and looked with satisfaction at the freshly turned brown soil.

  “That’s worth a crick in the back.”

  “I think I’ll nip the top off the lawn,” said Mannering.

  Soon, Mannering came into the kitchen, and sniffed.

  He washed his hands, as she carried the dish from oven to table. The table, in the spacious brick-walled kitchen, rocked on a wobbly leg.

  “I was going to put that right, wasn’t I?”

  The table was an old-standing joke.

  They finished a silent meal.

  Downstairs, in the living room, Lorna was bending over a book which lay open on a coffee table. She was frowning; preoccupied. He went in quietly, and she looked up, almost guiltily.

  “I’m still being a fool?”

  “If you’re connecting Marion’s invitation with my black past, you certainly are.” He switched on the electric fire, and stood looking down at newspaper clippings. The book was Lorna’s. Until their marriage, he hadn’t known that it existed. Although she dreaded the past, it fascinated her; and fascinated him. A tingling of excitement rang through him as he read in Lorna’s thick, bold writing:

  Press Clippings about the Baron, jewel thief, Requiescat in pace!

  They sat on the hearth rug and looked through the book. Nostalgia rose out of it, like a cloud. Peacetime headlines in inch-high letters, the detailed story of the Baron’s first exploit, the gradual rise of a figure who had become almost legendary. There were many names besides the Baron’s. Chief Inspector (now Superintendent) William Bristow, who had been in charge of the investigations into daring thefts, was one. But history and personalities lived in the book. It was the story of a man first hunted and hated as a thief, who gradually became a public hero because what he took from the squalid rich he gave to those in need. There were stories of daring thefts from men who had squeezed fortunes out of the hungry; stories which had rocked England with laughter, hints which told that, over the years, even Bristow had come to feel affection for the Baron. Towards the end, Mannering’s name appeared; but never a hint that he was the Baron. Events had caught up with him; poacher became gamekeeper, and so:

  “The police discussed some features of the robbery with Mr. John Mannering, the well-known collector of precious stones”;

  or:

  “Mr. John Mannering, whose knowledge of preci
ous stones is reputed to be unparalleled in this country, assisted the police.”

  Lorna looked up, and was smiling.

  “You devil! I wonder how many remember? Besides Bristow.”

  “Bristow knows I threw my hand in, and he doesn’t know what it is to be vindictive. Just now, he’s checking on enemy aliens. He’s probably hating it, and wishing he were back on the job of hunting thieves, who have a great time in the blackout. We ought to ask him down for a weekend.” Mannering began to fill his pipe. ‘Were you thinking about the Baron days before you saw Bristow’s double?”

  “I suppose I was because of Marion’s invitation.”

  “I wonder if she’s in a jam and doesn’t want to confide in the police,” said Mannering. “Is that your line of thought?”

  “I haven’t any line of thought, only emotions. I just don’t want to go there.”

  Mannering’s voice became harsh, his expression bitter.

  “How I love these polite conventions! Haven’t we enough to worry about? You wrestle with rations, paint V.I.P.’s, and deliver the pictures on time, keep the garden going – and I’ve gone for a soldier. I sit at a desk all day, and watch others do the real work, or hear about it. I’m as much use as—”

  Lorna said sharply, “John! How long have you felt like this?”

  “My sweet, the only thing that’s kept me sane is you and Holly Cottage. I’m not a soldier, I’m a new version of the toy drum major – making the poor beggars in battle dress march out on manoeuvres and march back again. They say I’m an Intelligence Liaison Officer!” He stuffed his pipe, angrily. “I need as much intelligence as a baboon. All I do—”

  “But darling! There have to be men at base, who—”

  ‘All feel about the same as I do.” He lit his pipe and smiled. “Relax, I’ve got it out of my system. Blame the Baron for working me up. Here’s Bristow, wasting his time on harmless aliens, and me wasting mine on what-you-will, when we could both be doing a job that would mean something. I feel better now I’ve said that.”