The Baron Again Read online

  “Look here, can I go?” Mannering broke in impatiently.

  “With pleasure,” said Kulper.

  Mannering looked doubtfully about him, and then stepped to the door. No one made any attempt to stop him. He opened it irresolutely, and then went into the passage. The light was on outside, and no one moved behind him.

  He closed the door and let it bang. He held the handle so that it did not latch, and he heard Kulper’s sharp and half-expected order: “Follow him, both of you. What car have you got?”

  “My Singer.” This from Greene.

  “Get downstairs quickly. Don’t let him go to roost without getting the address.”

  Mannering’s teeth were clenched as he heard the orders, and then raced for the stairs. He was in the hall when he heard the upstairs door open again, and he was outside the drive gates of Byways before Greene and Jackson let themselves cautiously out of the house.

  He dallied deliberately.

  In the shadows of Nelson Street it was easy to make sure that the others were following him. He reached the Austin, a car with a false number-plate and which would never be useful to any trailers, and jumped in. As he turned towards the main road he passed the Singer, without a second glance. Greene had moved fast, for it was parked outside the house from which a dance band’s music still came clearly.

  Mannering was breathing more easily, and there was a gleam in his eyes, that devil-may-care glint that had been with him so often in the past.

  “Beautifully clever, Mr. Kulper—but not so good! Come on, Greene, I’m in a hurry.”

  They were held up several times at traffic lights. Mannering made sure that he did not give any hint that he thought he was being followed, and he led them on the straightest route to the West End.

  He left the Austin at a garage in Drury Lane, and finished his journey by foot. Both Greene and Jackson followed him, one on either side of the road. Short cuts took him to the block of flats where Toby Plender lived.

  It was one of three blocks; he passed Plender’s and went into the next. There was a list of empty flats displayed, including Number 71, on the third floor. He slipped the card bearing the number from its socket; no one saw him. He caught a glimpse of Greene on the far side of the road, and Jackson passing the entrance as Mannering walked to the lift and hurried in. It was an automatic, and he pressed the button for the third floor.

  He had to move fast, to take a chance. Jackson would follow up the stairs, and be perhaps two minutes behind him. Mannering raced to Number 71, the furthest flat along the passage, and rang the bell imperiously for safety’s sake. There was a name card outside the door, probably left by the previous tenant, for no answer came.

  The Baron had never worked quicker than he did just then.

  His skeleton key slipped into the lock, and his fingers twisted and turned it in a fight against time. He could hear footsteps coming up the stairs: whether Jackson’s or Greene’s did not matter, he had to have the door open before a man arrived.

  The lock was more awkward than he had expected, and he was perspiring freely when at last it clicked back. He glanced covertly towards the right, and saw Jackson reach the end of the passage. Mannering’s lips parted as he disappeared into the empty flat, and closed the door.

  Jackson’s footsteps came softly along the passage, stopped for a moment, and then went backwards. Mannering waited for ten minutes, and then cautiously opened the door and peered out; no one was in sight.

  Now that he was here, he had a chance to make himself presentable. The flat was furnished, and had a bathroom; he used it to clean his face and remove the rubber and the cheek pads. From the man that Kulper and the others had seen, John Mannering slowly emerged, cheered by the success of the ruse.

  He was ready in a quarter of an hour, and with the exception of one or two oddments he needed, he put his tools in the attache case, determining to lose it before returning to Plender. There would be a sensation if they were found in the flat, and probably a newspaper headline if the blue mask was connected with the Baron; he did not want Kulper disabused yet.

  A dozen people were passing the block entrance downstairs, but neither Greene nor Jackson were in sight. Mannering laughed as he turned right, towards Plender’s block, and three quarters of an hour after he had promised to return, he knocked on the solicitor’s door.

  Plender, a tall man, pale-faced, and with a Punch of a chin that gave his face a clownish look at times, was facetious on the matter of punctuality. However, he settled down quickly to hear what Mannering could tell him of the case for Brian Halliwell. Mannering spread himself.

  At Byways, Jackson and Greene were telling Kulper that the Baron had a flat at 71, Hare Court Mansions, W.1, that Jackson had actually seen him open the door and go in. That final discovery had made even Jackson more cheerful.

  “I told you, we have him—there.” Kulper, with a rare gesture, pressed his thumb on the table. “Now we will see what can be made of Eldred’s strong-room. We see the Baron again on Monday next at two—and Monday evening, I think, for the job.”

  Mannering, with half his mind on Plender’s considered opinions, particularly of the alleged suicide attempt, and half on the uncomfortable hour he had spent at Byways, was wondering whether policy would dictate an attempt on Eldred’s. Unless he could obtain the photographs quickly – and so far he had no idea where to find them – he would have to go to Staines.

  If he tried and failed it meant his finish. The finest strongroom in the southern counties, a challenge on three points – to the Baron’s ingenuity as a cracksman, to his ability to outwit Kulper if he obtained the haul from Staines, and to his chances of clearing Halliwell through it – was difficult to resist. Further, it was vital that he should get the photographs and negatives.

  He had several days to work in before Monday and his appointment with Kulper at the Status Billiard Hall. Mannering began to see the possibilities, and his spirits rose.

  Chapter Fourteen

  Preparations

  “It would be useful,” said Toby Plender plaintively, “if you listened now and then to what I was saying instead of dreaming. Losing your enthusiasm for the job, John?”

  Mannering, who had been staring at Plender without seeing him, widened his eyes and then shifted his position.

  “Sorry, old man. No, I’m not tiring of it. I’ve seen one or two other ways of helping young Halliwell. Were you saying something that matters?”

  Plender moved his under jaw up and down and he looked almost grotesque.

  “I was making an impassioned demonstration of how Halliwell stands a one in a hundred chance of getting off on the present evidence. I doubt whether Hackett would waste his time on the defence as it stands, and that’s frank.”

  “I thought our eminent Counsel liked an odds-against case.”

  “He doesn’t mind three to one, but these are a bit too heavy. He likes to think he’s defending an innocent man, too, if he’s taking a chance. Are you listening?”

  “Get me a whisky and I’ll listen even to a Jeremiah.” Mannering stood up and stepped to the table where the decanter and glasses were standing. “Toby, Halliwell’s innocent.”

  Plender scowled.

  “There’s some Coivoisseur in the right-hand cupboard, try it. You seemed damned sure of yourself. Keeping anything back?”

  Mannering went towards the cupboard, talking as he took out a bottle of old brandy and two glasses.

  “I’m keeping a lot back, old man, but it’s not information I can hand out to you or Hackett. If I could you’d have it like a shot.”

  “Remember I’m a lawyer,” said Plender. “And if there’s one thing Hackett and I won’t stand, it’s half a story. I might in the present case because you’re in it, but Hackett’s a man who never lets friendship over-rule his judgment. Put all the cards on the table and let’s see the hand.”

  Mannering handed him his glass, and savoured the Coivoisseur.

  “My yarn won’t sound pleasa
nt in your honest ears, Toby, but I’ll ask you a question. Do you know a man named Leverson? Flick Leverson, of Wine Street, Aldgate?” Plender stared, his half-smile disappearing. “I know of him. What’s he got to do with this?” “Nothing direct: a great deal indirectly. I’ve met him several times, and we’re by way of being friendly. I put the Halliwell job up to him, and by degrees he found many things that are interesting. But as it reached me from Leverson, which is a crooked route, in the opinion of the police, it isn’t likely to appeal to Hackett. Following?” He sipped the brandy and nodded in appreciation. Plender put his glass down without touching the drink.

  “John, you’ve played the fool enough in the past, but if you start truckling with Leverson you’ll be in Queer Street a damned sight quicker than you realise. The man is dangerous.”

  “What’s the matter with him?”

  “He’s the biggest known buyer of stolen jewels, and I don’t suppose the police are ever far away from him. Look here, you haven’t bought stuff from him, have you?”

  Mannering chuckled: Plender could only appreciate half the humour that was gleaming in his friend’s eyes. If Plender knew the whole truth—

  Mannering sobered up. Plender must not be given anything that could be construed into a hint of Mannering’s other identity.

  “Hardly, old man! But he did offer me some stuff once, and I took a liking to the fellow. As a man he’s all right, isn’t he?”

  Plender scowled.

  “Ye-es. An unusual type. It’s odd that he’s a fence, for apart from that he could readily be taken as honest. All the same, dirt that sticks to him might stick to his friends. You’re known as a collector, and if Bristow, for instance, learned you were on nodding terms with Leverson, he might get interested.”

  Mannering waved his hand airily.

  “I know, but there’s no need to worry about it. And we’re getting away from the point, Toby. I can see, through Leverson, that there’s something bigger behind the Halliwell affair than there seems to be. Through Leverson I’ve managed to find who is running it. I think I can get the proof—”

  “And if you don’t, you may land yourself in the dock beside Halliwell,” said Plender disapprovingly. He took his brandy up slowly, cupping it in his hands as he eyed Mannering. The latter’s eyes held a devil-may-care expression that Plender had seen years before, when Mannering had been down to his last thousand pounds, and then found luck turning with him. Plender believed that his present fortune had been made from success at the tables and the race-course: he did not know just what form of gambling Mannering had specialised in, and he was consequently worried now. “Is it worth the risk? What does Lorna think of the position?”

  Mannering cut the end of a Corona-Corona.

  “She started it,” he said simply, and Plender lifted his hands in mock despair.

  “My God, what a couple! So you’re backing Halliwell, and to get proof of his innocence, which you believe in as touchingly as Hazel believes in fairies, you’re playing with Leverson and other things that are poison. And you want me to be an accessory.”

  “One mistake,” said Mannering, “and keep your five-year old daughter out of this. All I want you to do is handle whatever I can offer you as evidence. You’ve told me Halliwell’s in a bad way: I know he’s innocent. If I’ve got to touch hot stuff to clear him—well, I’ve touched it before. But if you’d rather I went to someone else—”

  Plender wagged his chin.

  “I’ll take it. But I can’t promise Hackett will.”

  “When’s the trial likely to start?”

  “Pretty soon. It’s in time for the start of the next Session and it’ll be put up early, there isn’t much else of note coming along. Say a month.”

  “Well, there’s time to work in. What notice will Hackett want?”

  “About six weeks,” Plender grinned.

  “Damn you,” said Mannering tartly, “it’s a ruddy sight worse than War Office red tape. Sorry, Toby, but I want a good man, and if Hackett and you are going to be plain cussed—”

  “The great John Mannering fails to see a joke,” smiled Plender. “Look here, I’ll fix an appointment with Hackett for you at his chambers tomorrow. I had another one for him, but it’s been cancelled, so he can fit you in. Eleven o’clock. Can you manage it?”

  Mannering looked relieved.

  “I’ll be there. But I’m serious about the thing.”

  “I’ve gathered that,” said Plender dryly. “I hope you don’t burn your fingers. At least you persuaded Halliwell to give himself up, and that was sensible.”

  “Meaning, I haven’t got the thing entirely out of proportion,” said Mannering. He stood up, glancing at his watch. “Well, unless you feel like a hundred-up—”

  “Mary’s due back at eleven-thirty, and I’ve a heavy day tomorrow,” Plender said. “Wait for her, and then get off.”

  Mannering waited, but for less than five minutes. Mary Plender, a woman whose plainness was usually forgotten in the charm of her smile and her manner, returned at a quarter past eleven. The Plenders were the only couple of Mannering’s acquaintances who kissed whether they’d been separated for a month or half an hour, and did not let the presence of their closer friends deter them. Plender had confessed once that in ten years of marriage they had never seriously quarrelled, and the five-year-old Plender twins – a boy and a girl – were perfect examples of what children should be, neither cheeky nor too subdued.

  Mary was short, inclined to plumpness, and in her quiet way did a great deal to keep Plender from neglecting his social obligations. Her pretty, light hair had a sheen of gold, and she was always superbly poised.

  “Have you finished talking, or must I be the mouse?”

  “We’ve finished,” Toby said. “I knew he was a lunatic, but I didn’t think he was a damned fool. Halliwell—”

  Mary took off her hat and shook her hair out briskly.

  “Halliwell didn’t kill Kingley, Toby, and if he did, I’d want to prove he didn’t for Marion Delray’s sake. I’ve never taken to a girl so much.” Her eyes shone. “If you two and Hackett can’t get him off—”

  “Great Scott!” exclaimed Plender, “she’s gone crazy too. I’ll have to see this Delray girl—”

  “You keep to business,” said Mary firmly. “John, Lorna was going to bed when I left, but if you’ll ring her when you get back to the flat she’d like it. I wish you’d get married.”

  There was a moment of awkward silence. It was unlike Mary Plender to make a gaffe, and Toby looked taken aback. Mannering’s face was sober for a moment, and then he shrugged.

  “What the gods forbid,” he said, and Mary smiled quickly, warmly.

  “That’s fine, John. I just hated to think there wasn’t a reason. I’m forgiven?”

  “I wonder if Toby realises what a lucky dog he is?” asked Mannering lightly. “Goodnight—and I’ll be at Hackett’s chambers at eleven, Toby.”

  The night air was cool as he walked back to Clarges Street, thinking more of Mary Plender’s words than of Halliwell. She just “hated to think there wasn’t a reason.” That was Mary: there were dozens, or hundreds, who imagined a reason; and while gossip did not worry the man, it must be having a disastrous effect on Lorna’s reputation.

  To make it worse, he himself was in a damnably tight corner on the Halliwell affair. He remembered Kulper’s manner, his own feeling that the man was dangerous. He had won one round, but there was a long way to go yet. The only consolation was that he had an outlet for his stored up emotions, that if it had not come the Baron would have started work again on something else: it was the only antidote to the poison of a love that was reciprocated yet could not be consummated. Either that, or going abroad and leaving Lorna behind.

  “Not if I know it,” said Mannering aloud, and his mind was working smoothly again on the subject of Brian Halliwell, and Kulper’s knowledge.

  Lorna only wanted to say good night, and by one o’clock Mannering was asleep. He
, too, expected a busy day to follow and a day that he would probably find harassing.

  Mortimer Hackett, K.C., had burst into prominence ten years before when he had successfully defended a man and wife accused of murdering their only child, for the insurance. The case had seemed a foregone conclusion, but Hackett had, with a violence that had seemed like wild abandon, seized on the one weak link in the prosecution’s case, and gained a ‘not guilty’ verdict that had caused a storm of disapproval. He had been vindicated three months later when the real murderer had been arrested on a minor charge, and betrayed himself to the police. From start to finish it had been a dramatic trial, and Mortimer Hackett had taken full advantage of it. He was one of the most prominent barristers at the Bar, and there were times when he seemed to play to the gallery – or the jury – more flamboyantly than reasonably. If he dramatised everything he touched, he succeeded in building up a reputation for defence in murder trials second to none. There was little of the quiet, solid, convincing reasoning of Hastings or Jowitt: he addressed the court and the jury more like a stump speaker at a close election contest, with a deep, booming voice that seemed part of his big body.

  When Mannering entered Hackett’s office that morning, he saw a man of nearly fifty who weighed eighteen stones. Hackett was clean shaven, with a babyish skin and small, trembling lips that seemed to indicate nervousness. His blue eyes were rather small and restless, darting to and fro all the time. His hands and feet were absurdly small for a large man, while his hands were almost an alabaster white.

  He was reputed to have the vilest temper in the Temples, but that was more pose than fact. Mannering had never met him before, although he had heard him in Court several times.

  Hackett shook hands as though he was afraid of wasting time.

  “Well, Plender, damned inconsiderate of you to fill my morning up, I could have done with a few hours. What’s the trouble? Not Mannering in a slander action I hope? Wouldn’t touch it.”

  Mannering offered cigarettes.