Meet The Baron tbs-1 Read online

  For Septimus Lee and Levy Schmidt were one and the same!

  Mannering had made a list of receivers of stolen goods — known in the vernacular as “fences” and by Flick Leverson’s more up-to-date colloquialism as “smashers” — supplied by that philosophical fence, for Flick had realised that it was possible he would be nobbled, and his fears had been justified. Mannering had little desire to try these men with the stuff — or, to use Flick’s term again, the “sparks” — that was being watched for by the police. Others besides Levy

  Schmidt might be informers on big stuff or small; and, n any case, he could not expect such co-operation from them as he had received from Levy.

  His discovery of the Jew’s dual personality intrigued him. The man’s cunning was astonishing — and too thorough, the Baron decided, to be matched — yet.

  As pawnbroker and fence Lee would be waiting warily for the Rosa pearls; as the financial head of the Severell Trust he would probably be watching Mannering carefully. Mannering was not, in those first months, sure enough of the effectiveness of his tweed-cap disguise, even with variations, to try it out again with Lee as Levy. So it had to be someone else.

  Mannering decided to try a warehouse-owner by the name of Grayson, a pink-and-white doll of a man with a devastating bass voice. Grayson controlled two or three coastal steamers which disgorged goods at his East End warehouse and carried other cargoes to the North of England and occasionally to Holland. He was able to smuggle stolen goods from one country to the other, and Flick Leverson had said: “He’ll swindle you. Levy’s a tight swine, but Grayson will do you down worse than Levy. But he’s straight.”

  A tribute, Mannering had thought, to the honour among thieves that he would put to the test.

  Three days later the robbery at Septimus Lee’s house a swarthy, big muscled man visited the warehouse offices of Grayson — Dicker Grayson — and asked for the boss. In view of the many sides to his business Grayson made a point of interviewing all callers, and the big-muscled man was admitted to his private office.

  “Well?” boomed Grayson. “What d’you want? A job?”

  The other shook his head. His brown eyes — hazel eyes — looked sullen, and he spoke gruffly and awkwardly, as though suffering from a slight impediment. He looked a man who was frightened of a coming trick, and certainly no one — not even Randall — would have recognised him as John Mannering.

  “No,” he muttered; “I’ve come from Flick. Know Flick?”

  Grayson’s little eyes narrowed. His pump hands tightened on the arms of his chair, for he knew a man from Flick Leverson could mean only one thing.

  Mannering was conscious of a keen scrutiny; Grayson was at once trying to remember whether he had ever seen him before and making sure that he would always recognise him in the future. Beneath that pink-and-white face and those small puffy eyes was a mind at once shrewd and alert.

  “Never seen him in my life,” thought Grayson. “A North Countryman, by his voice. Fat face, full lips — don’t fit in with his eyes, somehow, although perhaps they do.” He was quiet for a moment, deliberately trying the other’s nerve, but the big man seemed prepared to stare him out for ever.

  “What do you want from Flick?” he demanded at last.

  “He’s gone away for a year or two,” The big-muscled man grinned suddenly, and then that furtive, half-fearful expression returned to his face. “Listen, Mr Grayson — Flick said you’d buy some stuff from me. I’m stuck. Got me?”

  Grayson nodded, and his grin widened. He did not doubt the man’s genuineness, for Flick Leverson was a straight dealer; arrested or not, he would never have turned copper’s nark. Moreover, something seemed to tell Grayson that this man would take very little for his goods.

  “What is it ?” he demanded.

  “You’re on the level?” The swarthy man’s eyes narrowed; his fear was very evident now.

  “You know I am or you wouldn’t have come to me,” said Grayson.

  The other seemed satisfied by the bluntness of the assurance, and pulled an oilskin bag from his fob-pocket. He dropped it on the desk in front of the fence, and Grayson opened it, expecting to find the proceeds of a smash-and-grab raid or a “snatch”. When he saw the first thing — a pearl ear-ring which had adorned the ear of Lady Dane Fullarth a few weeks before — the fat man’s eyes widened. When he saw the second, a scintillating diamond pendant strung on platinum links, his eyes bulged. When he saw the third, a sapphire ring with a centre stone as large as Grayson’s little finger-nail, he gasped, startled out of his calm.

  “Where’d you get these ?” His voice, for once, was low.

  The dark-faced man looked ugly.

  “That’s my pigeon, mister. Are you buying or aren’t you? That’s all I wanter know.”

  Grayson swallowed hard. He ran through the remainder of the stuff, and reckoned quickly that he would sell them for two thousand, perhaps five hundred more. The seller was frightened and in need of money. He calculated swiftly, his one concern not to offer too much.

  “I’ll give you two-fifty,” he said.

  The man didn’t speak, and the silence dragged.

  “Well ?” snapped the fence.

  “Why, sure,” said the big-muscled man, standing up and stretching his hand out for the bag. “I’ll find someone who’ll like ‘em as a present, mister. Deal’s off.”

  In that moment Grayson saw two things. One, the man wore gloves, to make sure that no one saw his bare hands. Two, that the best haul of genuine stones which he’d seen in years was disappearing. He cleared his throat, and waved his podgy fingers.

  “Now wait a minute,” he protested. “There’s a big risk handling that stuff, and you know it. Four hundred. Not a penny more.”

  The other grinned knowingly.

  “I tell you I’ll give em away,” he said gruffly. “Fifteen hundred, and I’ll listen to you.”

  “You’re crazy !” snapped Grayson.

  “Maybe — but not as crazy as that,” said the other.

  “Seven-fifty. That’s my final offer.”

  “Sure it is. Jumped up pritty quick, ain’t it? I’ll wait until Flick comes out. “He’ll give me two thousand, and reckon he’s got a bargain. Let’s have ‘em.”

  Grayson held on to the oilskin bag, and looked at the big man, into those piercing hazel eyes. For some reason his back went cold. He had made a big mistake in thinking the other was easy meat, but he still wanted those jewels.

  “Listen,” he said, “twelve hundred, level. You’ll never find anyone else to give you more, son, and, remember, I take all the risks while smothering the stuff. Now, what about it ?”

  The big man seemed to hesitate. Then he thrust his gloved hands into his pockets and nodded.

  “Cash right away,” he said, “in small notes.”

  “I’ll have to get ‘em,” said Grayson.

  “I’ll wait,” said his caller.

  Three hours later Mannering strolled into the Leadenhall Street branch of the City and Western Bank and deposited four hundred pounds. The cashier nodded respectfully, secretly admiring the lean, strong face of the famous John Mannering. From there Mannering went to the National

  Bank and deposited a similar amount, finishing up with adding three hundred and fifty pounds to his account at the Piccadilly branch of the South-eastern.

  “I think,” he soliloquised as he strolled towards the Ritz afterwards, “that I deserve the other fifty for pin-money. Grayson will be useful in future, but the less I see him the better I’ll like it. Furrrh!”

  The pressure of the rubber pads he had placed in his cheeks that afternoon — which explained the “impediment” — and the ridge where his cunningly adapted false front-teeth had barked against his gums still seemed present in his mouth. The teeth consisted of thin rubber, stretched over the surface, and the discomfort was worth it, he knew. Eyes or no eyes, Dicker Grayson would not have recognised him if he had tried for a month.

  “Anyhow,” he tol
d himself with satisfaction, “that’s one urgent problem settled.”

  It was just after four o’clock when he reached his flat, and he opened the door without the slightest premonition of trouble. There was, after all, no reason why he should expect it. He lit a cigarette, and then glanced round.

  In that moment he knew that he had been visited.

  He had no time for thinking before the faintest of movements in the bathroom caught his ears. His eyes narrowed a fraction, and his lips tightened, but he went round the room despite the knowledge that the intruder was still there.

  A drawer of his writing-desk was partly open, and the position of the settee had been altered. On the carpet there was a small sheaf of bills, until recently resting in the drawer; other small things confirmed the object of the visitation. He was being burgled; and his thoughts flew immediately to Septimus Lee.

  His reaction to this new and unsuspected danger was cool. In the past few months he seemed to have achieved a state of nerves as close to rock-like as was humanly possible. The problem of the moment was the only thing that concerned him; everything else was driven from his mind.

  His flat had been raided, and the raider was still there; his luck was holding. The probability was that Septimus Lee — or Levy Schmidt — had connected the robbery at Streatham, and was investigating.

  Mannering was sorely tempted to go immediately to the desk and explore the false bottom of one of its drawers — the drawer where the Rosa pearls were hidden. He overcame the temptation, and walked instead to the window, opening it an inch before lighting a cigarette. Then he stripped off his jacket and turned his shirt-sleeves up to the elbows, as if he was going to wash his hands. Not for a moment did he give the impression that he was on the alert.

  His face was expressionless as he walked to the bathroom door. He knew that he was being watched, or waited for. A moment’s reflection told him that the raider was probably behind the door, waiting for his entry. He grinned suddenly, and pushed the door back — hard!

  There was an ouch! of pain, an oath, the sound of a heavy body hitting against the wall. The door was flung to again, but he steadied it with his foot and rushed into the bathroom, ready for trouble, but it wasn’t likely to come. A thickset man was reeling against the wall, holding his nose, a nose that streamed rich red blood.

  “Now don’t do that,” said Mannering chidingly. “Best thing for nose-bleeding is to hold your head back. Or try a door-key.”

  The man swore viciously and swung a clumsy right towards Mannering’s chin. Mannering slipped it without any trouble, and clipped his man beneath the jaw twice in rapid succession. The other gasped and swayed away.

  “Which should teach you,” said Mannering cheerfully, “that the reward for ingratitude is what you don’t expect. Now, my friend, duck your head into that basin for a minute.”

  He grabbed the man’s arm and led him to the washing-basin, ducked his head below the level of the taps, and turned the cold-water tap full on. The man gasped and struggled, but Mannering’s grip was tight and painful. The water turned a muddy brown, but a second basinful was only slightly discoloured.

  “Now,” said Mannering, still cheerfully, and surveying the other’s dripping head and shoulders contemplatively, “dry yourself. Next time I’ll hit you.”

  There was a light in his eyes and a glad song in his heart as the other obeyed, quickly enough and without further resistance. “The luck,” Mannering told himself, “is running my way so much that I’m beginning to wonder whether it is luck — or destiny.”

  “And now tell me all about it,” he said aloud.

  The man’s lips twitched. He was an ill-favoured ruffian, old, the ex-pug type at its worst, but there was no fight left in him. His nose, where the full force of the door had caught him, was swollen, red, and angry, and there was a bruise on his chin corresponding with the break on Mannering’s knuckles.

  The latter took a bottle of iodine from the medicine-chest and dabbed his grazed skin. He offered the bottle to the silent and sullen intruder, but his only reward was a snarl.

  Mannering’s eyes hardened, although his voice was still gentle.

  “You and I,” he said, “aren’t going to get on very well unless you mend your ways, my friend. You’ve got a nice new suit — try to live up to it.”

  The man glanced down automatically towards his newly creased trousers. Mannering laughed, but there was a note in his voice that seemed to strike cold. It was no longer gentle.

  “Now — spill it!” he snapped.

  The man’s eyes met his, wavered, and finally turned away; he looked at the carpet, his feet shuffling.

  “I ain’t saying nuthin’,” he grunted.

  “No?” asked Mannering softly.

  “No!” snarled the bruiser; “and if I git ‘arf a chance . . .” He stopped suddenly as Mannering moved, his lips twisted in a smile; the others eyes glinted with a sudden fear. “Where are you goin’, mister?”

  To call the police,” said Mannering affably. “Perhaps you’ll know whether I should get in direct touch with Scotland Yard or . . .”

  “You’re kiddin’!”

  Mannering paused, with his hand on the telephone.

  “Now, why,” he demanded, “should I be kidding? Try and remember the “g”, George.”

  The man eyed him and the telephone with a fast-increasing fear. His hands were moving nervously, and his tongue slid along his thick lips. He was on tenterhooks, and Mannering was enjoying the situation.

  “I — the boss said . . .” The bruiser started to speak, and then broke off uncertainly.

  “Ah!” murmured Mannering. In his ear the telephone was burring; he replaced the receiver softly. His hand moved from the telephone, and the other’s eyes showed relief. “So someone sent you ? And I was thinking that you’d thought it all out in your own noodle. I’m disappointed, my friend.”

  The man glared, goaded almost to a point of desperation.

  “Never mind the funny stuff,” the bruiser snarled, momentarily forgetful of his fear.

  “You honour me,” said Mannering politely.

  “If I ever git my ‘ands rarnd . . .”

  Mannering lifted the receiver off the hook again, and out of the corner of his eye he saw the man swallow hard, saw his tongue slide along his lip. The cracksman grinned as he dialled “O” and a moment later heard the voice of the Inquiries operator. She was likely to be irritated before he had finished, he realised, but she would merely put down yet another subscriber as unreasonable.

  “Give me . . .” began Mannering for the other man’s benefit.

  “For Gawd’s sake!” cried the bruiser. He seemed to realise for the first time that Mannering was serious, and his face was livid, his hands trembling.

  “I beg your pardon,” said Mannering to the operator, “my friend doesn’t want the call alter all.” He replaced the receiver, and sauntered towards the other, who was standing by the fire-place. He grinned at him for a moment. Then: “Well, George, who sent you?”

  “You know right enough,” grunted the bruiser.

  Mannering laughed, and shook his head in well-feigned bewilderment.

  “Is this a game?” he inquired. “You praise my humour, and now you tell me I can read your thoughts. I think . . .”

  He broke off deliberately, for there was doubt in the other’s eyes.

  “Straight, mister, don’t you know?”

  “As man to man, no,” said Mannering. “All I know is that I sometimes keep a little packet of stones here, and I guess that your amiable boss thought he would try to rid me of one of them. Luck sent me when you were here.”

  “And you ain’t got ‘em?”

  “Got what?”

  “The Rosas.”

  “The Ros . . . By all the Jews in Jerusalem! I’ll wring that little sweep’s neck!” Mannering looked genuinely angry, and the pug’s eyes no longer held uncertainty; he believed what Mannering wanted him to believe. “So Lee sent you,” Mann
ering went on, “did he, because those ruddy stones were collared the other night? Where is Lee?”

  “At — at Streatham.”

  “What part, you idiot? The cricket pitch or the common?”

  “Mister!” The crook’s eyes held appeal now, and his voice was thick with fear, instead of anger. “Don’t tell ‘im I told yer — don’t tell ‘im about the Rosas, don’t, mister . . .”

  Mannering hesitated, and it seemed to his victim that he was cooling down. Actually he was enjoying himself.

  “And why,” he demanded coldly, “should I do anything to save you from a nasty ten minutes with Septimus Lee ?”

  The crook said nothing. Mannering eyed him for a moment in silence. Then he tossed his cigarette-case, which the other caught easily enough, despite his surprise.

  “Or don’t you smoke?” asked Mannering.

  “Well, I don’t mind, boss. . . .” The man was confused, unable to make head or tail of this sudden geniality.

  “Nice of you. Now, George” — Mannering went closer to his man and looked at him steadily — “I want the truth. Do you know what that is ?”

  “I — kin make a guess, mister.” Obviously the bruiser was bewildered, but he was genuinely thankful for the cigarette, which he stuck between his lips. Mannering gravely offered him a lighter.

  “Excellent,” he said, although whether he was referring to the cigarette or the other’s promise to try to find the truth was not obvious. “Now I know why you called, but I still want to know what you’ve taken.”

  “But I ain’t . . .”

  “Don’t forget that guess, George!”

  The man swallowed hard at the wrong moment. Tobacco-smoke and oxygen mixed badly, and he choked, going red in the face and bending half-double.

  “You are in the wars,” murmured Mannering sympathetically.

  He waited for the fit of coughing to pass, and then repeated his question. After a moment’s hesitation the pug took a package from his pocket and handed it to his captor. The latter unwrapped two slim books, and whistled when he saw them. They were the last things he had expected.