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  Copyright & Information

  Last Laugh for The Baron

  First published in 1970

  © John Creasey Literary Management Ltd.; House of Stratus 1970-2014

  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.

  ISBN EAN Edition

  0755135903 9780755135905 Print

  0755139240 9780755139248 Kindle

  0755137574 9780755137572 Epub

  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.

  Introduction

  He broke off, and Larraby heard the catch in his breath; the note of horror. Then, without warning and as if without cause, a different sound came over the wire – the sound of a man, laughing.

  The laughter was soft and deep and warm; it sounded like the laughter of a happy man. And it grew louder. The caller did not speak again but Larraby could hear him breathing, harshly, stertorously. Then the laughter grew louder and louder still, closer and closer, until it was deafening in Larmby’s ear. He moved the receiver away as one of the junior assistants, young Aristide Smith, was passing; Aristide paused.

  The laughter stopped, as suddenly as it had begun.

  There was a moment’s absolute silence, followed by a click as the receiver was replaced.

  Dedication

  This book is dedicated to 'The House At The End Of The Rainbow'

  1

  THE DESPERATE PLEA

  “But they’re trying to kill me,” the man said. His voice was calm in spite of his words, but he spoke with an unmistakable note of urgency which the telephone did nothing to disguise. “I am not joking. Ask Mr. Mannering to speak to me, please.”

  “But I do assure you, sir,” said Josh Larraby, “that Mr. Mannering isn’t in.”

  “He came in only half-an-hour ago,” the man stated flatly. “I saw him. And he has not left the shop since.”

  “I’m sorry, sir,” said Josh. “He went out by the back way.”

  “I don’t believe you!” the other said, his voice sharpening with anger.

  “What I suggest, sir,” replied Larraby, “is that you come and see for yourself. If you wish you may wait for him here.”

  There was a long pause; then the man spoke in a different, almost helpless tone.

  “I can’t get away.”

  “You mean . . . ?” Larraby began, but then broke off.

  He was at the back of the long, narrow shop, called Quinns, a shop which was more like a gallery or museum, enriched as it was with antique furniture, pictures, and objets d’art which came from all the corners of the earth. He could see, from the desk at which he now sat, into and beyond the shop, past the discreetly lit showcases in most of which reposed only one piece – perhaps an embossed lamp once used by a Tibetan monk; an unset stone from the crown of a King of Babylon; or a jewelled sword which had once been plunged into the heart of a faithless Queen.

  Beyond these treasures was the brightness of a narrow Mayfair Street – Hart Row. Across this street, just visible, was a milliner’s, one exquisitely modelled hat in the window. Sparkling and scintillating in Quinns’ window, as if in competition, was a jewelled hat, a crown, remnant of an ancient oriental kingdom now part of the great mass of India.

  Standing nearby, with the receiver to his ear, was the man who had said so calmly: “They’re trying to kill me,” and had then told Larraby: “I can’t get away.”

  “Do you know where Mr. Mannering is?” he demanded. Now the urgency in his voice was clearly detectable.

  “I’m not sure, sir.”

  “Do you have to lie to me?”

  “I am not lying,” Larraby said, quietly. “He was going to the Royal Academy, and said that he might do some shopping on the way.”

  “Do you know where he would shop?”

  “I know where he might,” conceded Larraby. “At Pendowers.”

  “The clothes shop?”

  So the man with the deliberate voice knew this part of London, thought Larraby.

  “Yes, sir.”

  “I’ll try him there—”

  “Excuse me,” Larraby interrupted, “but I am in Mr. Mannering’s confidence, sir, and if I can pass on a message, or give him your name with a telephone number where we could reach you—”

  “I don’t know where I’ll be,” the other said. “I’ll try him at Pendowers, and . . .”

  He broke off, and Larraby heard the catch in his breath; the note of horror. Then, without warning and as if without cause, a different sound came over the wire – the sound of a man, laughing.

  The laughter was soft and deep and warm; it sounded like the laughter of a happy man. And it grew louder. The caller did not speak again but Larraby could hear him breathing, harshly, stertorously. Then the laughter grew louder and louder still, closer and closer, until it was deafening in Larraby’s ear. He moved the receiver away as one of the junior assistants, young Aristide Smith, was passing; Aristide paused.

  The laughter stopped, as suddenly as it had begun.

  There was a moment’s absolute silence, followed by a click as the receiver was replaced.

  For a few seconds Larraby said nothing – and in those few seconds a car pulled up outside the shop, its chauffeur, neat in dark blue suit and blue-peaked cap, springing out and opening the door for a young woman who appeared in a graceful flurry of long legs and short
skirt. One of the other assistants, Lionel Spencer, moved to open the shop door as Aristide asked: “What was that, Josh?”

  “Something I didn’t like at all,” said Larraby, slowly. “Go into Hart Row, Smith. Don’t make it evident that you are looking for anything, but try to observe any two men who might leave a shop or flat together. One may well be leaving under duress.”

  “At once, sir.” Aristide moved swiftly. Broad-shouldered and lean-flanked, his dark grey suit obviously hand-tailored in Savile Row, he cut quite a figure.

  So did the girl who entered the shop, for she was tall and elegant, her fair, straight hair falling to her shoulders, swinging like a golden curtain as she turned her head.

  She said, her voice high and clear, “I would like to see Mr. Mannering, please.”

  Aristide slipped quickly past her.

  Strange, thought Larraby, standing at the far end of the shop, that he showed so little interest in so beautiful a girl; it was almost as if he were deliberately avoiding her.

  Larraby moved slowly forward, as Spencer answered.

  “I’m afraid Mr. Mannering isn’t in, Madam.”

  “When will he be back?” she asked sharply.

  “I don’t know, Madam. Mr. Larraby may be able to tell you.”

  Larraby, an elderly, frail-looking man with a gentle expression on his deep-lined face, a face which nonetheless had an image of youth, was now close to the girl. She turned towards him.

  Spencer, tall, thin, but a more powerful-looking youth than Aristide, watched with interest. No young man could fail to see how lovely she was, although Spencer, deeply in love with a girl he had first met at Quinns, was thinking at least as much of the aircraft he and his fiancée were to catch later that day.

  “Are you Mr. Larraby?” the young woman asked Larraby.

  “Yes, Madam. Mr. Mannering—”

  “I must see him,” she interrupted imperiously. “Do you know where he is? Where I can find him?”

  After a long pause, Larraby said: “I’m sorry but I don’t know. If I can help you myself—”

  “No,” she interrupted again. “I must see him.”

  “I don’t know exactly when he’ll be back, but I should think within the hour,” Larraby said soothingly. “Would you care to wait?”

  She frowned.

  “Can’t you possibly get in touch with Mr. Mannering now?”

  “I can try, but—”

  “Then please do.” She spoke as if she took it for granted that she would be obeyed.

  In other circumstances Larraby might have insisted with polite formality that she should state her business before he would even try, but now two people had asked for Mannering in the space of a few minutes, each with the same sense of restrained urgency; and he had a strong feeling that, if he possibly could, he must tell Mannering the girl was here.

  No one else was at the back of the shop. Spencer and the third assistant, Wainwright, had moved to one side and were inspecting a glass cabinet which needed emptying and polishing; no one who worked for John Mannering wasted time. Larraby led the girl back to his desk, took a telephone directory from a shelf, and ran his fingers down the PE . . . columns in the section L to R. The next moment he was dialling Pendowers.

  A woman answered almost immediately.

  “Pendowers Models.”

  “Is Mr. John Mannering there, by any chance?” asked Larraby.

  “Mr. Who?”

  “Mannering, John Mannering.”

  “No,” the woman said. “No one named Mannering works here.”

  “He is a customer,” Larraby said, feeling suddenly impatient. The woman on the telephone was obviously new or she would have recognised the name Mannering. “Will you please ask if—”

  The girl was watching intently, as if willing him to find Mannering at the other end of the line; but if he were there, thought Larraby, it would be sheer luck. Everything was still and silent again, neither of Quinns’ assistants made any sound at all, and the girl seemed hardly to be breathing.

  A strange thing happened to Larraby.

  A sound seemed to echo in his ear – the sound of distant laughter, drawing nearer – never more than an echo of the laughter he had heard before, but nonetheless vivid.

  It stopped, abruptly, and the telephone became alive.

  “This is John Mannering,” Mannering said.

  Larraby was so shaken by the sound he had imagined, the trick his mind was playing him, that he didn’t immediately answer. The girl took a half-step nearer and her hand moved out towards the telephone, as if she were prepared to snatch it from Larraby’s.

  “Is anyone there?” Mannering demanded.

  Larraby collected himself.

  “Yes, sir, this is Larraby. I’m glad I caught you. There is a young lady here, who—”

  The girl moved again, and this time actually took the receiver from Larraby’s grasp and put it to her ear.

  “Mr. Mannering?” she asked.

  Larraby wished he had been ready for this. He could have gone into Mannering’s office, picked up the extension and listened in, able and ready to take any instructions which Mannering cared to give. But the door would have to be unlocked and there simply wasn’t time.

  So, Larraby could hear only what the girl said.

  “Mr. Mannering,” he heard, “I want you to understand that I know what you are doing, and that you are simply wasting your time . . . You know very well who I am ... I am Belle Danizon, of course . . . I repeat, you are wasting your time . . . Goodbye.”

  She put the receiver down, briskly.

  Larraby, astonished at all she had said, wondering why Mannering had told him nothing of any dealings with a Belle Danizon: staring at him, almost as if he wasn’t there, she was breathing hard, her lips compressed.

  “Thank you for your trouble, Mr. Larraby,” she said abruptly, and turned away, reaching the door only a step behind Spencer, who had hurried to open it for her. She nodded, and stepped outside; and a moment later the chauffeur was ushering her into the big, black limousine.

  The three men inside Quinns watched, as if hoping to catch another glimpse of her, as the big car moved slowly away.

  The next moment, it was gone, and everyone in the shop was still and silent. For a few seconds the street was empty. Then two women paused by the window of the milliner’s, and an elderly Japanese walked past the window of Quinns, then turned back to look at the crown.

  A car passed; a taxi; and a youth on a bright red motor-cycle.

  The door of Quinns opened and the Japanese came in. He was short and broad, and had a wide face with regular features and narrow, obliquely-set eyes. Larraby, turned back to his desk, while Spencer went forward to the man who had just entered.’

  “Good afternoon, sir.”

  In good but American-toned English, the Japanese said quietly:

  “I am interested in the jewelled crown in the window. Will you give me some information, please?”

  Spencer hesitated. Larraby appeared, knowing that only he could deal with such an inquiry, yet wishing he could have had a few minutes in which to recover his poise. He showed no lack of composure, however, as he went forward and began to explain. This was the Rapui Crown, once owned by the Prince of Rapui. They talked quietly about it, the Japanese obviously knowing a great deal about the period and the region of Cambodia, Laos and Vietnam.

  Quite suddenly, Mannering appeared at the doorway. He was tall and broad-shouldered, and, in his way, as strikingly good-looking as Belle Danizon.

  “. . . here is Mr. Mannering,” Larraby said with relief. “I am sure he would like to discuss this with you, sir. If you will give me your name I will . . .”

  He broke off, for Mannering’s glance held the withdrawn ‘not now, Josh’ express
ion of one who had no intention of being side-tracked from his purpose. He inclined his head to the Japanese, who in turn smiled mechanically and gave a stiff little bow from the waist, and walked straight past the two men towards his office.

  2

  JOHN MANNERING

  Mannering saw Josh and the Japanese, and even before Josh spoke, guessed that he would be consulted, but he was too preoccupied and too intent at that moment to stop. The strange conversation he had had on the telephone had troubled him, and before he did anything else he wanted to put notes of it on paper.

  Taking the key to his office, he opened the door and stepped inside. The room, to which he was almost blinded by familiarity, was not large, but it was beautifully proportioned. A Queen Anne desk held a place of prominence, flanked by two William and Mary chairs, their leather seats and backs polished by centuries of use. There were shelves, and built-in cupboards, and a portrait of himself dressed in all the elegance of a cavalier. Mannering spared no glance for any of these things. Moving swiftly to the desk, he pulled a notebook towards him, and began to write:

  Belle Danizon . . .

  Veiled threats . . .

  He paused, then put his pencil aside, half-laughing at himself for having written down something which he could so easily have remembered. What on earth had possessed him to write ‘veiled threats’? But all at once his smile faded. There had been something in the way the girl had talked . . .

  There was a tap at the door, and he glanced up.

  “Come in.”

  Josh Larraby’s face appeared.

  “I’m sorry to worry you, sir, but—”

  “It’s all right, Josh. I wanted to jot something down before I forgot it. Who is the man in the shop?”

  “Mr. Hirioto Tiro.” Josh handed Mannering a card on which the name was inscribed in English, and also, if Mannering guessed rightly, in Japanese. There was a New York address and, written in precise handwriting: ‘At Claridges’. “He is interested in the Rapui Crown, sir.”