King Maker Baron

  Copyright & Information

  King Maker Baron

  First published in 1975

  © John Creasey Literary Management Ltd.; House of Stratus 1975-2014

  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

  0755135873 9780755135875 Print

  0755139216 9780755139217 Kindle

  075513754X 9780755137541 Epub

  0755155025 9780755155026 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

  The Strange Young Man

  Countless remarkable affairs had started at Quinns; criminous affairs mostly, for Quinns was a treasure house of rare and beautiful objets d’art, of ancient jewellery, even of painting. Just as a treasure house draws those who love art and beauty for its own sake, so it attracts those who love it, covet it, and sometimes plan to steal it, for its value. Quinns was a shop.

  There were those who preferred to call it a salon, others who deemed it a gallery, but in simple and prosaic terms it was a shop. That was how its owner, John Mannering, regarded it. For there he bought and sold works of art, plying his trade and proud of it. At one time a private collector, it had dawned on him, soon after he had bought Quinns, some twenty years before, that as a shopkeeper he could see, handle, possess – if only temporarily – ten or even a hundred times more lovely treasures than he could as an individual.

  Further; he could choose from the very loveliest that passed through his hands and so add objets of both rarity and beauty to his private collection. He could be more selective, and so become more knowledgeable. There were some who believed him to be already the most knowledgeable man in the world about such treasures; not only individuals but the curators of great museums, not only patrons (or as he would have it, customers) but fellow dealers. Even the police consulted him. This was ironic, for before he had become a dealer and a man of great integrity, he had for a few wild years been a jewel thief, a cracksman of great daring and resource. Scotland Yard had hunted him as they had never hunted a man who was not a murderer … had found him as elusive as the Scarlet Pimpernel, as Raffles and Arsene Lupin. He had been a man known only by a soubriquet: the Baron. The final irony was that the man who had led the hunt for him had retired from the police force and was now the manager at Quinns.

  He knew – but had never been able to prove – what Mannering had been. Mannering knew that he knew. But that was now buried in the past. For years, even when on opposite sides, they had been good friends; and now they were the closest: the ex-Chief Superintendent in his middle forties, the ex-jewel thief about the same age.

  Apart from mutual liking and respect they shared a love of the beautiful things which had been fashioned by the great artists, the goldsmiths, the jewellers, the cabinet makers, the silversmiths of the past.

  The owner of Quinns was John Mannering. The manager of Quinns was William Bristow.

  On the day of the advent of the strange young man, they were in the shop together.

  It was after seven o’clock in the evening, late for them still to be at Quinns.

  Outside in Hart Row, that narrow street which had survived nearly four centuries – as had the building which housed Quinns – there was quiet. No cars passed. Only occasionally a pedestrian hovered, drawn from Bond Street by the dark oak of Quinns gables, and the gilt lettering on the fascia board; drawn but disappointed, for the window was empty so as not to tempt thieves. This was a police instruction, regretted by Mannering, but accepted because of the greater risks of the times.

  A couple or two had lingered, but Mannering and Bristow had been together at the back of the shop, seeing no one who passed. There was a magnificent Welsh dresser which divided the main part of the shop from the back, and on this dresser, its wood nearly black from centuries of polishing, silver glistened.

  It was a set of George I silver so rare, so beautiful and complete that neither Bristow nor Mannering could really take it in. It was not yet all unpacked; two of seven crates remained untouched, and the packing from the others was strewn about their feet. Much of it was newspaper, dated 1891.

  Fluorescent light, skilfully placed in the dresser to cast just such a light as this inspection needed, glowed on the pieces, some slightly tarnished but most as bright as when they had last been cleaned and put away.

  1891.

  Over eighty years ago.

  One newspaper reported the birthday of a German Prince, nephew of Queen Victoria.

  One had a picture of the Queen at some great ceremonial occasion.

  Another had a portrait of Alfred Lord Tennyson.

  These crumpled newspapers were now piled nearly as high as Mannering’s knees. He was a tall man, powerful-looking, lean, handsome, his jet black hair touched here and there with grey. Bristow an inch or two shorter, was also a lean and well-proportioned man; he lacked, however, something of the other’s handsomeness.

  He was unwrapping a cake knife, with a thick and beautifully wrought handle; the blade flashed into his face, and he placed it down almost reverently.

  “It might have been polished yesterday,” he remarked.

  “Yes,” agreed Mannering. “Quite unbelievable.”

  “It’s all unbelievable,” Bristow said, placing his hands against the small of his back.

  “Stiff, Bill?”

  “A bit.”

  “How about breaking off for an hour?”

  Bristow pursed his lips, and looked at the two unfastened crates.

  “You mean just leave it as it is, and go upstairs?”

  Mannering laughed. “Am I such a hard taskmaster?”

  “You can be,” Bristow answered frankly. “And we said we’d work right through.”

  “I thought an hour would see it through,” remarked Mannering. “We’ve been nearly two already. Come on, let’s—”

  The shop door bell rang.

  The ringing came so sharply and unexpectedly and after such a long period of silence, that it made both of them jump. The echo seemed to get among the silver and create a faint tinkling sound; a chiming. Before it had faded Bristow put his eye to one of several peep-holes through which customers could be observed; few who came here were light-fingered but some found temptation and impulse irresistible.

  Silence crept back into the shop, only to be broken by Bristow’s quiet voice.

  “It’s a young chap.”

  “Alone?”

  “As far as I can see.”

  “Do we know him?”

  “I don’t,” Bristow stated, positively.

  “Go out by the back door and make sure he is alone,” said Mannering, in a matter-of-fact voice. “When I see you on the other side of Hart Row I’ll know no one else is there.”

  “Right.” Bristow turned and disappeared behind a screen which would hide him from the caller; Mannering knew it was less than sixty yards from the back entrance of Quinns to the front, so he should soon be in Hart Row.

  Mannering peered through the peep-hole.

  The young man stood in the doorway, without moving. It was not easy to distinguish his features since the door was in shadow, but it was possible to see that he was oriental – Chinese? Japanese? There was no way of guessing at this distance and in this light. He was slight of build, and d
ressed in a dark, tailored suit, not exactly appropriate for a warm summer evening. He had no hat, and his hair was a shining black, worn without a parting.

  He raised his right hand and pressed; Mannering was ready for the second ringing of the bell, although the actual sound made him start. The caller’s face was pressed close to the window, obviously he was trying to make out whether anyone was in the shop.

  Bristow appeared on the other side of Hart Row, clearly visible through the window; so the young man was alone. Mannering moved towards the door, walking with long strides along the aisle which ran between the two sides of the shop. On either side was antique furniture, objets d’art, paintings, miniatures. In the drawers of some of the old furniture were small collections of jewels, little of great value but all of interest to collectors. Later, when they left, Mannering and Bristow would switch on lights which would shine on key pieces of furniture and pictures. The police, who patrolled every half-hour, used the lights as a guide that all was well.

  The young man drew farther back so that the light fell more fully on his face.

  Malay, thought Mannering; almost certainly, Malay. The smooth, broad features, the slant of the eyes: yes, a Malay, and almost certainly one of high breeding. He himself reached the door, first disconnecting an electric circuit which would otherwise have brought the police to the shop in minutes, then drawing a top and a bottom bolt, a middle-door chain; and finally turning a key.

  The young man watched his face, taking no apparent interest in what he was doing. Mannering did not know him, was almost sure that he had not seen him before.

  At last, the door was open.

  “Good evening,” Mannering said.

  “Good evening,” replied the youth in excellent English. There was a faint hint of accent but no more. “Are you, please, Mr. John Mannering?”

  “Yes,” Mannering said, but he did not draw back. “I’m sure you know that the shop is closed.”

  “Indeed I do,” said the young man. “It is you I require to see, Mr. Mannering, not anything you have for sale. I regret I am so late, but I had difficulty in getting away.”

  Was it imagination or had he placed a slight emphasis on the words ‘getting away’?

  “I will gladly see you tomorrow—” Mannering began.

  He was being intentionally obstructive, for if he made difficulties, the other’s determination – or lack of it – would be revealed. He studied the dark eyes, the frown between them, the tension at the lips; yes, he was sure there was tension.

  “Mr. Mannering,” the young man said, “it is very important that I see you this—this evening.” A word hovered on his lips but he did not utter it; the word was ‘now’. He moved his right hand forward as if in appeal, and all the time he looked intently into Mannering’s eyes. “Please,” he was saying silently. Saying? Or pleading?

  “Who are you?” Mannering asked.

  The youth said: “I am Prince Hamid of Taria, Mr. Mannering. I am sure that you will remember my father.”

  Prince Hamid …

  In a flashback which took him completely by surprise he remembered Abdul Hamid, ruler of one of the smaller Malayan countries, an island which had not thrown in its lot with Malaysia but remained independent. It was between the two major parts of Malaysia – the Malay Peninsula and Borneo. He could almost ‘see’ the man whom this youth claimed as father: an enormous, grossly fat person who had had difficulty in squeezing through the doorway!

  The flashback took up only a moment of time, before Mannering stood aside and said quietly: “Yes, I remember your father.”

  The youth who called himself Prince Hamid stepped forward, glancing swiftly to right and left before he did so. Mannering closed the door, turned the key and pushed the chain into position, while at the same moment Bristow put on another fight at the back of the shop.

  The Prince started violently.

  “My manager is there,” Mannering explained. “We were working late, in an attempt to finish an urgent job.”

  “I am sorry if I have come at an inconvenient hour,” Prince Hamid said stiffly. “The truth is – I had no other time.”

  Now there was no doubt at all.

  The emphasis on ‘getting away’; the way he had glanced both right and left before coming in; the violence of his start when Bristow had put on more fight and now this ‘I had no other time’ all convinced Mannering that this young man was under great pressure; that he was living on his nerves, a man afraid.

  “I can give you what time you need,” Mannering began. “If the other work has to wait until morning, it can wait.”

  He beckoned Bristow, who came forward, and introduced him formally: “Highness, allow me to present my manager, Mr. Bristow. Mr. Bristow, I think we’ll go into my office. Do you think you could find some coffee and—”

  “Please,” interrupted Prince Hamid. “I have so little time. I must be back at my Consulate in one hour. If I am not, it will be discovered that I have been away.” He seemed to grow inches taller as he drew himself up, and his voice grew stronger as he said: “It is not that I am afraid to die. But there is so much to do before that happens.”

  Chapter Two

  Not Afraid to Die?

  Mannering thought, he can’t be more than twenty.

  It was not possible to be sure, of course; the sun and the heat played tricks with both men and women in the distant land where this youth came from. But usually it aged them, making a boy seem a man and a woman in her thirties old and haggard.

  He looked so young to speak with such solemnity and to have such hidden fear.

  “It is not that I am afraid to die …”

  “Why should you fear the possibility of dying?” Mannering asked.

  Quietly, the young man replied: “My enemies will kill me.”

  Mannering stood by the open door of his office waiting for the young man to enter. The room was of medium size, and sparsely furnished, but each piece was a gem. In the far corner from the door was a Regency chair, behind the door a bow-shaped Queen Anne desk, with armchairs and upright chairs at hand. Bristow had vanished. Mannering pushed up a William and Mary chair, and said: “Please sit down.”

  “Thank you.”

  “Your highness,” Mannering said, with great precision, “You have limited time and I could waste much of it by asking questions which are not important. Will you tell me why you came here and what you think I can do to help you?”

  The young man sat very erect; something in the set of his shoulders gave Mannering the impression that he felt as if he were sitting on a throne. If he told the truth he was a Prince; a ruler; and when his father died he would be the Sultan of Taria. Yes; that was the name of the island: TARIA.

  Was the obese old Sultan still alive?

  “Mr. Mannering,” Prince Hamid said, very quietly, “how well do you remember my father?”

  “Well enough to know there were few better judges of oriental jewellery and works of art.”

  “So you have done business with him.”

  “Some, but not very much.”

  “Will you please tell me why?”

  How did one tell a young man of noble blood, who so obviously believed in and lived his position, that his father had been a rogue? Had been? Why was he thinking in terms of the old man’s death? This youth no doubt still believed in the divine right of Kings. His father had absolute control over three or four million people. His word was law. He could order a man to be beheaded; or have his life stamped out by an elephant from the jungle … How did one tell such a man that he, John Mannering of Quinns, had doubted the Sultan’s legal right to the treasures he had wanted to sell.

  The dark eyes seemed to burn; to demand.

  “Please tell me why.”

  Mannering sitting down behind his desk, spread his hands and answered:

  “There was some doubt as to the legality of his regime.”

  “His Kingship?” The young man’s eyes stormed.

  “Malaysia was being formed, some of the states wanted to stay out of the Federation, but the people had to decide on the preliminary step towards union. That was the one issue they could decide because of the terms of membership; each state had to be guided by the will of the people.” As Mannering talked memory became more vivid even to the angry eyes and empurpled face of the man with whom he had refused to negotiate. Abdul Hamid had been furious, only just able to control himself and to leave Quinns without making a scene. “I have never wanted to be a pawn in any political game,” Mannering went on gently. “I am not a political animal.”