Last Laugh for the Baron Read online

  Hurrying towards the nearest steps to the subway, he allowed himself to be followed to the next exit, then, as a crowd of youths came past, he suddenly doubled back and went up the stairs he had come down. The plainclothes man was cut off by the youths, and had no chance to catch up. Mannering reached the Circus again, hurried along a narrow street, then into Shaftesbury Avenue, where the lights of a dozen theatres blazed.

  A taxi came along, its sign lighted. Mannering got in and gave the driver his address, then took a small mirror and a bottle of white spirit from his pocket, and spent the journey removing all traces of his disguise, so that the police watching his flat would recognise him as Mannering.

  It was a quarter to eleven when the taxi pulled up outside his flat. A plainclothes man appeared out of a doorway, watching him, and Mannering said quickly: “Have you been looking after my wife for me?”

  “Oh, Mr. Mannering. Yes, sir. No more trouble, I’m glad to say.”

  “Good,” said Mannering. “And thanks. Are you staying on duty?”

  “Not me, sir, I’m just off, but there’ll be a couple of men here until tomorrow at least.”

  “Very reassuring,” Mannering said. “Goodnight.”

  When he reached the front door of the flat, he had a strange feeling that everything was not as trouble-free as the man in the street had said. He gave a knock and a ring and a double knock, a code to tell Lorna who it was, and then put the key in the lock, holding his breath, touched by the fear of finding trouble.

  But Lorna came, eagerly.

  “Oh, darling,” she exclaimed, “it’s good to see you safely back.” She hugged him with a strength which told him how anxious she had been, and held him by the hand as they went into the study, which was virtually the living-room. “Did you have enough to eat? . . . Would you like something? . . . Tea or coffee or brandy? Oh, darling!” she said again. “It’s good to see you safely home.”

  He had never known her more relieved.

  She made coffee and cut some sandwiches, sat on the pouffe and leaned against Mannering’s knee. He told her what had happened, and could hardly believe it himself. The contrast between the tense, artificial melodramatic atmosphere at the flat above the carpet shop and this warm, homely, affectionate companionship was almost unbelievable. Lorna spoke now and again in a gentle voice: he wondered whether she had fully understood the deepest implications of all he had said.

  “John.”

  “Yes?”

  “Do you really think that Yenn can harm Bill Bristow?”

  “Yes,” Mannering said. “Yes.” After a pause he went on: “It’s too late to do anything tonight, though. I’ll be able to think more clearly in the morning.”

  “Then let’s go to bed,” she said, and stifled a yawn.

  Soon, they were in bed and asleep. The night was quiet. There were few movements in the street, and those mostly of two watching policemen.

  In the strong-room at Quinns, the prisoners slept. Above, Larraby dozed, fitfully. Next to his wife in the big double bed in the Putney flat, Bristow lay awake, wondering whether he had been wise to ask Mannering for help.

  It was after four o’clock when the telephone bell rang next to his bed, and he started up and snatched off the receiver. His wife stirred.

  “Bristow,” he said in an urgent whisper.

  “I want to see you,” Yenn said in a venomous voice. “I want to see you now.”

  17

  THE ULTIMATUM

  “Who—who is that?” Bristow demanded, as if he were hardly awake.

  “You know damned well who it is! I want to see you at Sir Richard Danizon’s place in Lamb Street—right now.”

  “Do you realise it’s four o’clock in the morning?”

  “You don’t have to tell me the time. Get out of bed and come and see me—now.”

  Bristow’s wife stirred, and then went still. He knew she was awake and was listening; and had no doubt she realised how badly he was worried. He could hear Yenn’s heavy breathing, the breathing of a man who was beside himself with rage, and was ready for another outburst.

  “Bristow, if you don’t get your carcase off that bed—”

  “Be quiet!” Bristow said sharply, and the momentary assertion of authority obviously startled the caller, who fell silent.

  “I’ll see you at seven o’clock,” Bristow said at last.

  “I said now!”

  “I’ll see you at my office at Scotland Yard at seven o’clock,” Bristow insisted. He knew the other would not come to the Yard, and he would have to give way eventually, but if he gave way all along the line he would be utterly defenceless. At the back of his mind there was the thought that before seven o’clock he could talk to Mannering.

  “Are you crazy?” cried Yenn. “I’m not coming to Scotland Yard. You come here, or—”

  “Oh, all right, I’ll come to you,” Bristow said. “Seven o’clock, no earlier.”

  He put down the receiver before the other could speak again; and eased himself down in bed. The night was chilly and his shoulders and the tops of his arms were cold. He wondered whether his wife would let him know she was awake, whether she would ask the questions which he could never answer. But she did not. He felt less tense, now, than he had all night. Warm, comfortable, no longer on edge.

  For the first time that night, he fell asleep, telling himself that he might as well get up, that he would have to be up by six in order to get to the house in Lamb Street by seven o’clock.

  He slept, soundly, oblivious to the passing of time.

  And Yenn waited, restlessly, only two miles away.

  “Will,” Mrs. Bristow whispered. “Will, wake up.”

  Bristow grunted and stirred and wished her a thousand miles away.

  “Will, it’s nearly half-past six. Will.”

  Half-past six. Half-past six. My God! Six! Bristow jerked up as if stung, catching his wife on the chin with his head, making her teeth snap. He had to be two miles away by seven o’clock, and it was half-past six. He flung back the bedclothes as his wife said with calm reassurance: “The kettle’s on, dear. I heard you say you would be somewhere at seven o’clock, so I thought I’d better call you.”

  “I—I’m glad you did. Thanks.”

  It did not dawn on Bristow that at this moment he was behaving almost as if his wife of over thirty years was virtually a stranger; that in his endeavour to protect her from worry, he was cutting her off from sharing a vital part in his life. He was in and out of the bathroom in ten minutes, and she brought in tea as he began to dress.

  “Will—”

  “Not now, dear. I—I’m in a hurry.”

  “Will,” she said. “You ought to know what I’ve done. I hope—I hope you won’t be upset.”

  He slipped on his jacket, looking at her almost as if he were seeing her for the first time. And in a way he was. She was nearly sixty, and her hair was grey, but she was as attractive to him now, as she had always been; and her eyes, so beautiful when she had been young, were still beautiful, despite the lines at the corners.

  “What have you done?” he asked gently.

  “I’ve told John Mannering that you need help.”

  “You’ve told—Good God!”

  “Will, I couldn’t go on doing nothing and seeing you so worried. I know you’ve kept something away from me to try to make sure I wasn’t hurt, but—” She broke off, hands stretching out towards him in rare appeal. “I just had to do something. He’s on his way here. I said you wouldn’t be gone until a quarter to seven. He should be here at any moment. I—I feel sure you can trust him, I really do.”

  She was searching his face for an indication of his reaction, and obviously the last thing she expected was the way he dropped on to the side of the bed and stared up at her, astonished at first bu
t gradually beginning to smile.

  “Yes,” he said. “Yes, I can trust him. What a bloody fool I was not to realise I could trust you, too.”

  “Oh—Will!”

  He said gruffly: “I’ve got to go. We’ll talk later. And I’m very glad you’ve sent for Mannering. You couldn’t have done a better thing.”

  There were tears of relief in her eyes as she poured out tea. The teapot was still in her hand when the front door bell rang. She put it down quickly. Bristow, looping his tie round his neck, saw for the first time that there were three cups.

  He heard his wife say: “He’s nearly ready. You’ll be able to talk in the car, won’t you, there’s no need to waste time on explanations now.” She pushed the bedroom door wider open. “Will dear, here’s Mr. Mannering. You will have a cup of tea, Mr. Mannering, won’t you?”

  In the car, Mannering’s car, Bristow said briskly: “I’m going to be late.”

  “It won’t do Yenn any harm to be kept waiting, Bill.”

  “John,” Bristow said, “he’s a very vicious man.”

  “I’ve discovered that,” Mannering replied, “but with luck he won’t be able to be vicious for much longer. What makes it possible for him to order you to go to see him, Bill?”

  “I know I should have told you,” Bristow said. “He has a tape-recording of a conversation I had with Frewin and with the others.”

  “Well?”

  “If he plays it back to the Commissioner—” Bristow broke off, dropped his hands on his knees, and as Mannering drove through the nearly empty streets, he stared straight ahead and said: “I’ll be finished, John. There isn’t any doubt about that—I’ll be finished.”

  His fingers were unsteady as he took out a pack of cigarettes and lit one from the end that was already between his lips. He glanced at Mannering, but Mannering was intent on the road; his profile looked very set and stern. He turned a corner into Kensington High Street as a clock hanging outside one of the big stores showed exactly seven o’clock.

  Mannering noticed the time.

  He did not look at Bristow; he had trained himself too thoroughly never to look at a passenger while he was driving, but he was strongly tempted to pull up, because he wanted to look Bristow straight in the eyes. The tone of the other’s voice, his manner since they had left the apartment, and the way he said he would be finished because of a tape-recording of what he had said to the victims of robbery, all pointed to one thing: that this man, whom he so liked and trusted, had accepted bribes from one or all of the five victims.

  “Bill,” he said gently, “what did you say that could possibly be so damning?”

  Bristow answered grimly: “You know Yenn by now. He’s an absolute master at tape-recordings. He took a recording of each of the interviews – he must have had a miniature recorder planted by these youngsters who do whatever he tells them. Afterwards, he edited the tapes – a very clever, beautiful piece of editing. Then he had a fresh recording made of the edited version so that there’s no sign of a cut. It sounds like a straightforward recording.” Bristow glanced at Mannering again. “Isn’t it simple?”

  “Very simple,” Mannering said, hoping that his relief didn’t sound in his voice. “But it would never stand up as evidence.”

  “It wouldn’t be used in evidence,” said Bristow. “It would simply be used to force my dismissal from the Force. I haven’t any doubt how effective it would be. Or will be, I should say. You haven’t made any progress, have you?” Obviously he had no hope at all.

  “Just a little,” Mannering said cautiously. “I gathered from him that he expected you to give him protection.”

  “You’ve got that far?” Bristow was startled. “He told me that I had to keep the police away from him. I told him (a) it wouldn’t be possible and (b) that in any case I wouldn’t try. There are times when he simply doesn’t seem to listen, still less understand,” Bristow went on, helplessly. “He says a thing, gives what amounts to an order and then seems to take it for granted that it will be obeyed and behaves like a madman if it isn’t. In the few weeks I’ve known this man I seem to have been driven out of my mind.”

  “His speciality is driving people crazy,” Mannering said drily. “Do you know what he wants this morning?”

  “I haven’t the faintest idea.” Bristow laughed bitterly. “Can you imagine me coming if I weren’t out of my mind?”

  “I can imagine almost anything with this particular man,” replied Mannering. “Bill – find out what he wants. I have an idea he’ll ask for incriminating evidence against me.” He took one hand off the wheel and rested it lightly on Bristow’s arm. “When you know what he’s after, tell him you’ll give your answer at Quinns – nowhere else. Make an appointment with him at Quinns and let me know what time it is. Will you do that? If it’s today – not earlier than five o’clock this afternoon, though.”

  Bristow nodded.

  Ten minutes later he got out of the car at the end of Lamb Street and walked with his usual briskness towards the big house, which stood, an oasis of the past, in the heart of London.

  Yenn towered over and glowered at Bristow.

  “You’re late,” he rasped.

  “I came as soon as I could,” Bristow said stonily.

  “Very well, this time I will overlook it. Why did you allow the police to raid the flat in Hart Row last night?”

  Still in a stony voice, Bristow replied: “I didn’t know there was a raid.”

  “You should have known.”

  “Why waste time discussing what happened?” Bristow asked, wearily. “What do you want now?”

  “You know I can ruin you, don’t you?”

  “I know exactly what you can do,” Bristow agreed.

  “I repeat, I will overlook what has happened so far on one condition,” said Yenn. “That is, that you do exactly what I tell you now.”

  Bristow studied him, almost unable to believe the arrogance of his manner, his absolute assumption of dominance. It did not seem to occur to him to doubt that he would be obeyed, and there was something uncanny in the way he looked at Bristow from beneath those jutting eyebrows.

  “What do you want?” Bristow demanded.

  “I want evidence against John Mannering of the shop Quinns,” stated Yenn flatly. “He is a criminal, of course. You must have a lot of evidence against him. I want it”

  Bristow didn’t respond.

  “You hear me?” Yenn rapped. “I want all the evidence you have against Mannering.”

  “So you do,” Bristow said, and he closed his eyes, partly because they felt so heavy, partly because he did not want this man to see the expression in them. “Mannering is an old friend of mine. He—”

  “An old accomplice, you mean!”

  Bristow said heavily, as if painfully: “There’s only one place you can get evidence against Mannering.”

  “Where?” Yenn loomed over him. “Tell me where, at once!”

  “At Quinns,” Bristow said flatly.

  “At Quinns? At his shop? Are you mad?”

  “If you want evidence against Mannering you can get it at Quinns,” Bristow repeated. “I have to be—”

  “Yes, goon! Tell me!”

  “I have to be there at five o’clock this afternoon,” Bristow said.

  “To-day? Sunday?”

  “Yes.”

  “I don’t understand you. You must be lying to me!”

  “Please yourself,” Bristow said, tautly. “I shall be there at five o’clock, and if you’re there you’ll get what you want.”

  “You mean—Mannering is blackmailing you?”

  “I mean I’m sick and tired of you, of him, of everything that’s happened this last few weeks,” Bristow said in a tone of repressed anger. “I’ve told you how you can get evidence against Mann
ering – don’t blame me if you throw your chance away.”

  He turned on his heel, and as he did so, saw Belle Danizon, sitting in a chair in a corner of the room. He would not have noticed her had she not leaned forward to see him.

  “Bristow!” cried Yenn, and he strode after Bristow into the lovely hall, with the portraits of men and women staring down at the puppets of the present. “You be there – understand? You be there. I’ve got to have Mannering where I want him, he—well never mind. You be there!”

  “I’ll be there,” Bristow said, heavily.

  On the telephone, he said to Mannering: “So that was the outcome of it, John. He’ll be at Quinns at five o’clock. Are you sure it will serve any purpose?”

  “Yes,” Mannering said. “But I don’t think you should be there as well, Bill. Be outside when he arrives, and then go off.”

  “John, what are you up to?”

  “Getting the last laugh on Bernard Yenn,” Mannering answered briskly.

  “John,” Bristow said uneasily, “I’m not sure you can. I’m not sure that he isn’t a lot cleverer than you realise. For heaven’s sake, be careful!”

  “Never more so,” Mannering promised. “Goodbye, Bill.” He replaced the receiver and then turned to see Lorna by his side, in her eyes exactly the same plea that Bristow had uttered.

  Be careful, her eyes seemed to say. Be very careful, John.

  18

  THE RENDEZVOUS

  As Mannering put down the receiver he looked at Lorna, patted her shoulder, and said: “You worry too much.” But as he went into the study he wasn’t so sure. There was something about Yenn, about the whole business, that he didn’t understand. For one thing, it was almost inconceivable that Yenn himself was capable of organising everything that had been done.

  Who else was involved?

  Sitting at his desk, Mannering checked the addresses of the other two young people involved: Frank Bennett and Charles Clawson Junior. Then he typed two brief notes, each saying exactly the same thing: