A Case for the Baron Read online

  Mannering put down the receiver. The man came hurrying from the hall, soft-footed and harsh-voiced.

  “She says Bristow is on the way, might be downstairs now. We’ve got to get out of here quick.”

  O’Malley said slowly, “I don’t believe it. It’s a lousy trick.”

  “If you think that’s a trick, you’re a bigger fool than I took you for,” Mannering said. “My wife was scared stiff. I suppose it’s even occurred to you that Bristow will probably see everyone who comes out of the place? If he finds a dead body—”

  O’Malley leapt at him in a swift, wild rush.

  Was this the finish?

  Mannering did not see the gun turn in O’Malley’s hand, but felt the butt smash against his temple. Pain went through him in an agonising wave. He lost his balance, fell against the desk, and knocked his head on the sharp corner. Pain screamed into agony, blood rushed to his head, he felt consciousness sliding away into roaring darkness.

  O’Malley said, “That’s fixed you.”

  He took a thick, crumpled envelope from beneath his coat, bent down, and pushed it into Mannering’s breast pocket, then turned to the hall, ushering his men out with him.

  “The back way,” O’Malley said sharply.

  As they reached the kitchen, the front-door bell rang.

  “Get that door open!” O’Malley switched on the light as the first man reached the back door and unlocked it. As he opened it, a stolid figure loomed out of the night.

  “Stay where you are!” The stranger put a whistle to his lips.

  O’Malley swung round, smashed the light bulb, then launched himself at the man in the doorway. The policeman backed away and lost his balance, and crashed onto the iron landing of the back fire escape. One of O’Malley’s men clattered noisily down the iron stairs; loud voices were raised below. O’Malley snatched a torch from his pocket; the beam showed his man and another plain-clothes man, grappling halfway down the staircase. The man O’Malley had floored tried to get up; O’Malley’s second thug kicked him in the face, and the man fell back, blood on his mouth.

  O’Malley went down, reached the struggling men, and brought the butt of his gun down on the detective’s head. Both men fell to the foot of the stairs, shaking the iron – and the policeman didn’t get up. O’Malley’s second man came running down. All three reached the courtyard at the back of the mansions and streaked towards the alleyway which led to the street. From farther along the alley came shouts of warning, followed by the shrill blast of a police whistle.

  O’Malley turned right; his men went left.

  O’Malley was lucky. For the police came from the left and his men ran into them. He heard a scuffle, more shouting, muffled oaths; he didn’t wait to see what happened but sped on, into the protecting darkness of a side street.

  Inside the flat, Mannering came round slowly.

  He heard banging on the front door. His head seemed to be on fire, and he felt sick. He sat up and held his face in his hands. When he drew his right hand away it was covered in blood from his temple. He clenched his teeth as he tried to stand up. The thundering on the door became a fury.

  The banging stopped. A uniformed policeman passed the open door of the study, from the kitchen and hurried to the front door.

  Bristow entered the hall.

  He saw Mannering at once, came into the room, and looked down at him. To Mannering, Bristow’s face appeared to be going round in blurred circles; he buried his head in his hands again, the pain almost unendurable. Bristow said something. Then Mannering felt his shoulders gripped firmly, and was helped to his feet and guided to an armchair. A man brought him a glass of water; he drank eagerly.

  Bristow said. “Platt, have a look at Mr. Mannering’s head.”

  ‘Mr.’ Mannering, as with respect – so Bristow was not going to turn on him yet. Why couldn’t he think? What was his danger? There were jewels in the attaché case, but it had no fingerprints on, thanks to the elastoplast. There was nothing Bristow could do about that.

  He knew nothing of the envelope in his pocket, an envelope identical with that which he had taken from Shayne.

  Platt, a stoical detective sergeant, examined his head and said that it ought to be dressed at once, but the wound was not serious.

  “Look after him,” Bristow said.

  Platt took Mannering to the bathroom, found the first-aid equipment, and patched Mannering up.

  When he returned to the study, one of the policemen had brewed tea. Bristow poured him out a cup, then took a bottle of aspirins from a phial in his pocket.

  “This will do you more good than whisky, just now.”

  “Thanks.” Mannering forced a smile. “Thanks for plenty, Bill. Have a cup with me.”

  “I will,” said Bristow.

  Mannering drank and looked about him. The attaché case lay open on the desk; several of the jewel cases were beside it. The elastoplast tape was in his pocket; he was safe, unless Bristow searched him. If Bristow got a piece of that tape he would find Mannering’s prints on the stuff, and need no telling what Mannering had done here.

  He felt the envelope in his pocket, and shrugged it down, thinking that his wallet had worked up.

  “Well, how are you feeling?” Bristow asked.

  “Much, much better. Bill, I owe you more than you realise.”

  “What happened?”

  “Mr. O’Malley, in full cry. He wanted me to accept a certain proposition, and when I turned it down he was all set to shoot. He had all doors watched, knew when your people were coming. That scared him and saved me from the business end of his gun.” No need at all to mention Lorna’s call. “But for that, I’d be where Marcus Shayne is.”

  “You’re sure it was O’Malley?”

  “It was the man I know as O’Malley.”

  “We’ll get him before the night’s out,” Bristow said. “All the London and home counties police are on the lookout.”

  “He had been using grease-paint for disguise, and might do that again. I shouldn’t take anything about Mr. O’Malley for granted, Bill; he’s as smart as he’s dangerous.”

  “Did you learn anything from him?”

  “Not much. But he gave himself away over Shayne.”

  “Let’s have it.”

  Bristow was dour, not sour. His grey eyes probed, his mind was busy. He’d put Mannering on to this, could hardly turn on him for being here. Mannering gave him more to think about, with the gist of O’Malley’s conversation, and talked much of the ex-patron and the offer. All the time, detectives were working in the flat, looking for fingerprints, searching the desk and other furniture in the study.

  “What valuables did you tell O’Malley were at the Bond Street Galleries?” said Bristow.

  “Jewels, of course.”

  “Those?” Bristow looked towards the attaché case. From where he sat, Mannering could not see the jewel cases.

  “Are there jewels in that?”

  “Don’t pretend you haven’t looked inside. Why didn’t you force it open?’”

  “I picked it up and had a look, then put it aside.

  “What did you expect to find?”

  “On the telephone, Shayne told me that he had found out where O’Malley lived, but he didn’t say where. He had given me this address, and I thought I might get on O’Malley’s tracks. Instead, he got on mine.”

  “Did you find O’Malley’s address?”

  “I found an address on a slip of paper, but it might not be O’Malley’s. It’s Number 5, Marble Court, Kensington. The paper was on the floor under the desk.”

  He put his hand to his pocket, for his wallet, and touched the envelope which O’Malley had placed there.

  At first he was puzzled. Then he felt the smooth surface, realised what it was, and what it might contain, jumped to the conclusion that within arm’s reach of Bristow were details of everything Shayne had been doing – and perhaps the end of all he’d hoped and planned. But Bristow was looking at his men at th
e desk and noticed nothing. Mannering drew out his wallet and then the slip of paper.

  “Thanks,” Bristow lifted the telephone, dialled the Yard, and gave instructions for a raid on Marble Court. Then, he turned to Platt and a Sergeant Willis, who had finished the search. He gave them the Marble Court address and told them to get there fast, warned them brusquely that O’Malley was armed. As the door closed on the sergeants, Bristow sat down in Shayne’s desk chair.

  “Why did you dodge Tring?”

  “I didn’t want him to follow me, for a good and obvious reason.”

  “You mean, you wanted to come here first?”

  “Yes, to find O’Malley’s address.”

  “Knowing that although Shayne often stayed here, it was not his regular London flat but was rented under another name? Knowing a lot more that you hadn’t told me.”

  “I’d no idea that Shayne rented it under the name of Brent until I found some lease agreement in a drawer. That gave me a shock, because Charles Ley and a certain Celia Brent—”

  He sensed the change in Bristow’s manner when he mentioned the girl, and it was a change for the better. Bristow almost certainly knew that Ley, Celia, and Charles had been here; he couldn’t keep the woman out of it.

  He went on, “Celia Brent was here when I arrived. That puzzled me, but when I discovered that Shayne sometimes called himself ‘Brent,’ I wasn’t so surprised. There was obviously trouble between Celia and Charles, too – how much do you know about them?”

  “I know they have recently become engaged, and that Ley objects to the marriage,” Bristow said heavily.

  “Then you know as much as I do. There was family trouble. Robert Ley and his son were quarrelling over Celia, who looked as if she wished the floor would open and swallow her up. Do you know who she is?”

  “Can’t you guess?” asked Bristow dryly.

  “Understanding came with a flash – an explanation of the encounter between Shayne and Celia at the Grange, of her presence here, the real significance in the name of Brent. He hadn’t seen it before, being blinded by the pressure of events; but now he knew.

  Bristow laughed.

  “So you didn’t know. Even your poker face gives you away sometimes! I’m glad you didn’t know that Celia is Shayne’s daughter. That is why Ley objects so strongly to the marriage. Celia was born out of wedlock, and Ley’s old-fashioned. Are you quite sure you didn’t know?”

  Chapter Nineteen

  “All right, you didn’t.” Bristow chuckled. “You don’t have to keep looking like a stupefied ghost. Shayne’s illegitimate daughter got her claws in our bright Pathfinder, and Ley objects. That makes a lot of things clear, doesn’t it?”

  The envelope and the elastoplast in Mannering’s pockets were forgotten; everything went out of his mind but this new fact. Bristow was smug about it; why?

  Mannering said, “Well, well! That’s one irrelevant factor explained.”

  “We’ve picked up quite a number of oddments of information, but there are still some we haven’t got, including the worst. I have known for some time that Ley and Shayne were at each other’s throats and Lady Ley and Shayne were like a couple of lovebirds. If Ley was jealous, I wouldn’t blame him. The Ley-Shayne trouble has got worse. Green, my man whom Lady Ley fired, reported two violent quarrels between the men. You don’t have to tell me why. Ley discovered that Charles was falling for Shayne’s daughter. Add that to the jealousy, and—”

  “I wonder how Charles and Celia met,” Mannering said.

  “Celia knew her father was a pal of the Leys, but Shayne wouldn’t allow her to meet them socially. That stung the lady’s pride. She’s aide to a high-up in the W.A.A.F. and fixed a temporary transfer from her station to Charles’s. Nice, neat job – she’d show her father whether she could meet Charles or not, and what she could do when she’d met him! What do you make of Celia?” Bristow asked abruptly.

  “A beauty with a kink,” Mannering said. “Knocking a few years off her age – and all the things that go with a woman who just has to appear younger than she is.”

  “I can tell you something about her age-complex,” Bristow said. “She’s twenty-nine, and old for that. She says she’s twenty-four. Why? Because Shayne got married four and a half years after she was born. Being twenty-four makes her legitimate. Being legitimate is important to beauties like Celia who always feel that the world is shouting “bastard’ at them. Just to prove she’s as good as anyone, she snared Charles Ley. Most young men, who live under his stresses and strains while on duty, like a cushiony form of relaxation, and she’s cushiony. It must have been easy for her.”

  Mannering said, “You’ve dug deep, Bill. Why didn’t you go on digging without me?”

  “I couldn’t get on far or fast enough. There’s a foul business linked up with all this. I once thought Ley was involved with the smuggling, but probably we know exactly where he comes in, now. As for the jewels—” Bristow moved to the desk and opened one of the small cases; inside was a sapphire pendant and a pair of earrings. Bristow handed them to Mannering, who held them beneath the light.

  “They’re wonderful stones,” said Mannering.

  “Do you recognise them?”

  “I’ve never seen them before.”

  “They left England five years ago, with the rest of the Kentley collection. The Comte de Guille brought them. I should say that half the collection is among those jewels. Half of two hundred and fifty thousand pounds, at pre-war prices. A quarter of a million, now.”

  “The Kentley collection,” Mannering said slowly.

  “One of the largest ever got together in England. They were known to be in France until the outbreak of war. The Comte de Guille has been interned by the Nazis, but they didn’t get his jewels. Obviously the collection has been smuggled into this country recently. The collection here isn’t complete, and there are some empty cases. Presumably Shayne disposed of the rest.”

  Outside, among the bushes, a quarter of a million pounds worth of precious stones lay wrapped in a handkerchief and hidden in the bushes. Sufficient to help thousands who were in desperate need.

  “Shayne knew how to get hold of the goods, Bill.”

  “He was a past master,” Bristow said with feeling. “I’m all mixed up about Shayne. You know that the Overseas Assistance League covers a multitude of sins, don’t you?”

  Mannering looked blank. “Should I have heard of it?”

  “All right, say you haven’t. Shayne smuggled jewels from the Continent, sold them under cover, and gave the proceeds to the Overseas Assistance League, using a variety of names for his donations. Lady Ley helps to dispose of the money.”

  Mannering said, “You’re full of surprises. Sure about this?”

  “I’m quite sure. The man Ferris—you will remember Ferris!—was picked up and questioned in London this morning. He arrived with Shayne, but didn’t go with him to Bond Street. He gave nothing away until we told him about the murder. That made him livid and opened his mouth. He told me where I could get details of everything.”

  How much did Bristow know? The envelope seemed to jab into Mannering’s arm.

  “Did you find these details?” he asked.

  “Yes. Hidden in a piece of furniture at Bond Street. If Ferris hadn’t talked, we probably wouldn’t have found the list – and what a list – of jewels.”

  “Any names?”

  “Nervous?” snapped Bristow.

  “I’ve no need to be. You know more about the job than I do.”

  New ideas flashed through Mannering’s mind. The Yard man might be bluffing up to a point, but he was certainly after more than a jewel-smuggling organisation. What was his ‘horror’? If that list had been founded on Shayne’s body, it would have stopped the work of rescue, but also whitewashed Shayne. O’Malley hated Shayne and would want to damn him completely. Would O’Malley have left it there? Or had someone else done that? Had someone else killed Shayne?

  Bristow said heavily, “No one el
se was named, not even you. Ferris swears that he knows of no one else who assisted Shayne. Lady Ley handled most of the money, through her organisation, but there is no evidence yet to prove that she knew how Shayne obtained it. Guessing that she did, guessing that the Grange was a market place for the jewels, won’t help me with a case. I can’t imagine that Lady Ley will make any admission,” he added dryly. “How much did you know?”

  Mannering said slowly: “Bill, Shayne told me that he was engaged in what he called work of a humane nature, and that he was being frustrated by O’Malley, who worked for an enemy of his. He wanted me to put paid to O’Malley, and promised that afterwards he would take me into his full confidence.”

  Bristow seemed satisfied.

  “I see. It’s one hell of a business. Shayne may have started off with good intentions and got himself into a jam. He’d need crooks to help get the sparklers – and most of the stuff he got his hands on seems to be here.”

  “It seems a reasonable place to find it.”

  “If they’d been in the safe. I should agree it was reasonable,” Bristow said. “How did they get out?”

  Mannering shrugged. “O’Malley could have opened the safe.”

  “Or the Baron,” Bristow sniffed. “Here’s a thing you’d better know. In one of the jewel cases there’s an authority from the Comte de Guille for Shayne to dispose of the jewels for relief on the Continent. So Shayne had some right to them and wasn’t just piling up a fortune. Instead, O’Malley talked to you about a ‘patron,’ you say?” Bristow changed the subject abruptly. “Any idea who the so-called patron was?”

  “Presumably, the man who has carried out this vendetta against Shayne.”

  “I doubt if we’ll find out who, except through O’Malley. I’ve reason to be grateful, things have hummed since you came in, but Shayne’s was a job that would appeal to the Baron. Two things need saying. First Shayne is mixed up in the other business, which is ten times worse. So bad that if a decent man knew about it, he’d have dropped his efforts with the Overseas League. You can’t ease human misery by making a greater misery for someone else. Second – you can agree that Shayne had nigh motives without condoning what he did. The smuggling’s a serious crime and doing our dollar reserve no good. Anyone caught carrying on with it will get a long jail sentence. And I mean anyone.’ The telephone bell rang.