The Baron at Large Read online

  Mannering’s head jerked up.

  The idea that flashed across his mind seemed absurd, but it persisted. If he was right he knew who had killed Armstrong.

  There was little sign of the snow in Central London or the City. Slush on the pavements was being rapidly swept away. Mannering was a quarter of an hour early, after stranding the police car and hiring one from a West End Garage. That was now parked in a narrow side street, as he waited near a jeweller’s shop window.

  The streets were thronged, the traffic nearing its mid-morning peak.

  Two or three idlers were about, but no one he recognised. If his belief was justified, he would recognise the man who was to meet Leverson.

  He saw Leverson walking smartly on the other side of the road, and he reached the Pump exactly on the hour. As he did so one of the loungers moved towards him, and Mannering experienced a surge of disappointment.

  It was no one he knew, the theory was blown sky-high. He stood waiting, while Leverson and the other talked. His quarry was a small, undersized specimen with a ginger moustache.

  They talked for five minutes, and once a packet changed hands. Leverson nodded at last, and they both turned away. Mannering waited until the little man had started along Fenchurch street, and then followed him, without once looking at Leverson.

  The man went to the first bus-stop, took a Number 15, and alighted at Piccadilly Circus. Apparently he had no idea that he was being followed, for he did not turn round once. He went to the Tube. Mannering booked a shilling fare and entered the same carriage as his quarry, but kept at the far end. It was the Hampstead line.

  Hampstead!

  Mannering refused to listen to the voice prompting him, but when the man got out at Hampstead he felt his heart sinking. The station was near the heath, and about it the snow was inches deep. Mannering saw his man take the Common road, and he knew it well enough to be sure in what direction he was going.

  There was no taxi-rank at the station, but a cab had just deposited a fare. Mannering blessed his luck, and ordered the driver to go to Heathcote Drive.

  A hundred yards further along the road they passed the little man, walking fast.

  At the corner of Heathcote Drive Mannering climbed out, paid off his cab and waited. A quarter of a mile from the road his quarry came in sight, trudging towards him. Mannering walked along the road, frowning, feeling bitter.

  He turned back, and this time passed the little man on the opposite side of the road. At a house called The Laurels his quarry turned into a carriage drive, while the Baron forced himself to walk in the other direction, tight-lipped and hard-eyed.

  For The Laurels was Theo Crane’s house.

  Chapter Twenty-Two

  Last Effort

  From Brook Street Mannering tried to telephone Beverley Towers, but most Hampshire lines were still out of order. He called Scotland Yard, and left a message that he would like Inspector Bristow to call him when he returned. He believed he could stall Bristow off long enough to work that night to get at the truth, and his motives were clear-cut.

  If Crane was concerned in the actual murder he would do nothing to help him. If his only complicity was with the robbery he would not stand idle.

  Leverson assured him that Rogerson was safe. The late editions of the morning papers carried a brief statement that Mervin had been arrested late on the previous night. On being shown that, Rogerson had no longer complained about his prolonged captivity.

  Mannering was in bed at half-past twelve, and he slept until half-past five the next morning. No news came through, but another call to the Yard earned the information that Bristow was on his way from Beverley, and was expected at Westminster soon after six o’clock. There was no direct line available to the Towers: Lorna had to wait in suspense which would strain her nerves to breaking point. He could do little but he telephoned Parker at Portland Place to keep a call in to the Towers, with a message that would be all Lorna needed for reassurance.

  He felt no exhilaration; the depression which had settled on him when he had seen his quarry turn into Crane’s house increased. Theo Crane of all people! Lorna had seen it first, and had taken the logical view, while he had tried to argue against it because of his personal liking for the man. Even now he hoped he would prove Crane innocent of the murders.

  The evening papers carried full stories of the arrest of Clara Mendleson and Mervin. There was a report, too, that Lord Sharron had been poisoned, but the Press carefully avoided suggesting foul play or suicide. Sharron was still alive.

  At half-past six, Bristow rang through. His voice was sharp and hostile.

  ‘Hallo, Mannering, you wanted me?’

  ‘Yes, Bill. I promised you I’d help if I could.’

  ‘Well?’ Bristow’s interest quickened.

  ‘You’ll probably have it yourself by now,’ said Mannering. ‘Just an association of ideas, Bill, the Mervin-cum-Clara Mendleson angle seemed to be the right one, and I’d heard a rumour that Mervin and Mr. Cornelius Gillison were not strangers.’

  ‘I know that now,’ said Bristow crisply. ‘I think we’ve got them. Mervin’s admitted being at Beverley on the night of the dance, but he says he did not see the Sanders girl. We may break down his denial, with luck, and we’re holding him on the drug charge until we can get something stronger. Mannering’—Bristow’s voice grew taut; Mannering half-expected what was coming—‘if you know anything else you must pass it on. Two murders, understand that, and the murderers might slip through our fingers through lack of evidence.’

  ‘I can’t give you a hint,’ said Mannering quietly, ‘but I may be able to, tomorrow morning.’

  ‘Oh,’ said Bristow.

  ‘For which I hope you won’t think it necessary to make a move about the disappearance of a car last night. Do I work on, Bill?’

  ‘I’ll ring you in twenty minutes,’ promised Bristow curtly.

  Mannering had a snack and a shave in the interval.

  While he was eating, Bristow walked to the Assistant Commissioner’s office. As he expected, Lynch was already there.

  Ffoulkes looked up sharply.

  ‘Well, Bristow, what did he want?’

  ‘I think,’ said Bristow slowly, ‘that he’s got something, sir. He wouldn’t talk as he did unless he had. He wants until tomorrow morning. He didn’t say so, but I take it he wants to have freedom of movement, and—er—he seems worried over an action about the car.’

  Ffoulkes’ lips twitched.

  ‘He needn’t be, the last thing I want is the Press to get that story. What do you suggest?’

  ‘That we do what he wants, within reason.’

  ‘Reason being?’

  ‘Well,’ said Bristow shrewdly, ‘he’ll want to move without a shadow, and he may ask us to stop watching Leverson. They’re in this business together. If it weren’t for the fact that those two lots of jewels had been returned, sir, I wouldn’t advise this, but knowing what happened, and knowing Mannering, I think it’s justified.’

  Lynch brushed cigarette ash from his coat lapel, and Ffoulkes said slowly: ‘You can draw your men off Mannering and Leverson for tonight and tomorrow, up till midday, Bristow. If nothing’s happened then back they go.’

  Thank you, sir.’

  Lynch said uneasily: ‘Is it wise, sir? We might catch Mannering making a forced entry, that’s almost certainly what he’s got in mind. If we do, we’d get his man as well as the Baron. I think it’s worth taking the risk. Ease the men off, but have Mannering followed all the same.’

  Bristow said with some heat: ‘He’d know in a moment if we’re playing a double game, and he’d simply sit tight. I know we want the Baron, but the murderers are more important.’

  ‘I think we’ll get them through Mervin.’

  ‘We can’t prove yet that Mervin was near Beverley on the night of the robbery. There’s Rogerson, too, we know he’s mixed up with the Gillison bunch and Mannering may have him in mind. We haven’t a thing on Gillison yet, either.
’

  Lynch shrugged.

  ‘Well, I’m opposed to giving Mannering an inch, sir. He might be pulling something else off, it isn’t beyond him.’

  Ffoulkes shrugged.

  ‘It’s possible, but I’ll take the chance. You can crow if you’re right, Lynch. Go ahead, Bristow.’

  Soon afterwards Mannering said ‘Thanks, Bill’ very quietly, and half an hour later he left Brook Street, seeing no sign of a shadow. He reached Fuller Mansions, where he spent an hour carefully assuming the identity of Mr. Moore. Then he phoned Portland Place, to learn that Parker had at last spoken to the Towers, and that Lorna was on the way to London. Sharron was still holding on.

  At that time Gillison was talking to Mendleson over the telephone, and both men were badly frightened. Gillison’s troubles were increased by the fact that Yvonne had secretly left the country on a false passport supplied by her father against emergency. Mendleson was frantic at Rogerson’s disappearance, and the knowledge that the police wanted him for questioning.

  Leverson had contrived to glean a certain amount of information from Rogerson about one thing.

  ‘I was told that Mannering was the Baron.’

  ‘Who told you? Gillison? Mervin?’

  ‘I’m not talking!’

  ‘How many others believed it?’

  ‘One, as far as I know. You’re mighty anxious to find out, aren’t you?’

  Leverson said suavely: ‘Mannering’s a friend of mine, and a lie of this kind might do him considerable harm. Why don’t you tell the whole story? He’s a man of his word and he’ll see you through.’

  But Leverson was forced to give it up, worried though he was.

  He had tried to get in touch with the little man with the ginger moustache, but without success. The little man was worried, too, as he sat in a saloon bar and drank beer in the company of ex-P.C. Knowles – late of Beverley Towers – who not long since had learned that Errol had contrived to pick up another job.

  Perhaps because of that, Knowles was not talkative.

  Midnight struck clearly from a Hampstead church, and the heavy tramp of a policeman’s feet faded into silence.

  No wind disturbed the keen, cold air, but clouds moved sluggishly across the sky, and there was no moon. In the shrubbery of The Laurels the Baron made his way towards the back of the house, cautious and yet unable to avoid crunching the snow.

  He had examined the outside carefully, and he admitted that Crane had made a good job of protecting himself against burglary.

  The Baron had one advantage.

  He knew the layout of The Laurels as well as that of the Fauntleys’ Portland Place home, and he knew where Crane’s safe was placed. It was a large one, with room for a man to stand inside, built in the wall of the study and cleverly concealed by oak panelling. Mannering knew the make well, knew also that unless he found the keys he would not be able to open it without dynamite.

  He had come prepared for that.

  The back of the house was his best means of approach, for it was sheltered by large trees, some in the garden, others on the heath. Nevertheless, the Baron knew that to effect an entry would present him with one of his stillest problems.

  From his waist he uncoiled a stout rope ladder, knotted every twelve inches, one end fitted with a steel hook.

  Climbing a pipe close by a window he reached the roof without trouble.

  It was fifty feet from the ground, and in the night air it looked twice as far. His glance below was not a nervous one, but cautious – more so because the snow made the slates treacherous.

  He crouched for a moment on the sloping roof, then worked his way along it until he was immediately above a window large enough for him to climb through.

  The eaves were strong, and would easily bear his weight. He fastened the hook of the ladder into stout oak then very cautiously he lowered himself, gripping the rope in his right hand.

  As he was about to slip down he heard a car engine, and a shaft of light sprang out from the heath road. He flattened against the roof, his heart thumping. The car changed gear as it swung round the corner, and for a matter of seconds The Laurels was bathed in a lurid glare.

  Then the car went on towards the end of the road, and the Baron began again.

  Slowly he lowered himself to the window sill.

  The room was the bathroom, and the window was wired for alarm, but he knew exactly where and how it was done, and there was no danger in breaking one of the small leaded panes. That part of the job was similar to the work at Bewlay Mansions, but after he had cracked the rubber handle against the glass he stopped, waiting tensely, half-prepared to hear sounds of alarm. None came, and he picked the pieces of glass out carefully, then slipped the wire-cutters through the hole. By touch he located the wire strung across the top of the window, and snapped it in two. No alarm, no sound.

  He unfastened the catch of the window, and pushed it open. In a moment he was through, but his wet shoes gave a slight squeak as they touched the floor.

  He stood rigid. Could that sound escape notice in a house where all the rooms were so close together?

  Apparently it had done.

  Mannering reached the door, opened it and saw the faint light burning on the landing. To the left were the stairs to the ground floor, to the right the short staircase to the attic rooms, occupied by the servants. Two maids and a cook, Mannering knew, and there was a gardener-chauffeur who slept out.

  Crane and his wife shared a room, and unless they had changed it since Mannering’s past visit it was the first door on the left past the main stairs. He crept along the carpeted passage, hearing no sound from upstairs or down. First he went downstairs, unlocked and unbolted the front door and left it latched, to make sure of an easy exit.

  He was reluctant to gas the Cranes, but dared not take a chance. He wanted the keys of the safe, and he had to treat this burglary with the same impersonal coolness as he had his others. If Crane was implicated in those killings he deserved no mercy.

  The door opened to the turn of the handle.

  The Baron crept in, and found that the light from a street lamp spread a soft radiance about the room. He heard the heavy breathing of Theo Crane, and a slight stir from Rene. Mannering stood silently by the door, watching carefully, half-afraid of a trap.

  There was no further movement.

  He drew his gas-pistol from his pocket, and stepped firmly towards the bed, Rene was turned towards the window, her golden hair outspread; she looked very lovely.

  Mannering pressed the trigger of his gun. He saw Rene’s lips open a little as the ether began to take effect, and then with a little sigh she settled down into unconsciousness. Mannering turned to Crane. And he saw the man’s eyes flicker open!

  It was a moment of acute danger, a moment when the whole attempt could fail. Crane opened his lips, but Mannering’s left hand tightened about his throat. There was fear in Crane’s eyes as the gas-pistol moved, but he struggled gamely, kicking against the bedclothes. To no purpose, for the gas slowly took effect, and he slumped down.

  Mannering put his hand under the pillow, and felt something hard. For a moment he believed he had found the keys, but he drew out an automatic. His eyes narrowed as he tried again, but the keys were not there.

  He tried Crane’s pockets, the dressing-table and wardrobe shelf, the drawers in two small cabinets; he found nothing. If the keys were in the bedroom Crane had hidden them successfully. Ten minutes passed in futile search, and the Baron hesitated. It was not likely that Crane would tell him where to get the keys, if he let him come round. He knew the man well enough to reckon on a dogged, reckless courage. Rene was not likely to know where they were. He took the chloroform bag out, and pressed the pad against their mouths and nostrils.

  He was safe from interference from the Cranes for twenty minutes.

  It was difficult for him to understand the bleakness in his mind. He felt none of the usual thrill, no pleasure in what he was doing, had no sense of match
ing his wits against those of the police, or the occupants of the house. What he was doing was unpleasant to him, and he had to force himself to go on. He left the bedroom and went quietly upstairs to the servants’ quarters. He knew that the three slept in one large room, and the door opened easily. He took the key from the inside, closed the door and locked it, slipping the key into his pocket.

  Crane’s study was a large room on the first floor, and as he expected the door was locked. But it was a comparatively easy task to pick it, using a skeleton key, and he stepped inside within three minutes of reaching it.

  Heavy curtains were drawn at the windows.

  He closed the door, and switched on a small desk-light.

  He knew where the safe was, and yet hesitated. Did he want to prove this business against Crane? Would he derive either pleasure or a sense of justice from it?’

  Justice, at all events.

  He found the knob which controlled the sliding panels covering the safe, and pressed it. The steel door appeared, but the keys were still missing. A quick search of cabinets and desk did not reveal them. He switched off the light and stepped to the windows. Should he putty them to lessen the risk of an explosion echoing outside?

  His eyes glinted suddenly, for beyond the curtains he had glimpsed steel shutters. He pulled them into position.

  There were no two minds as to what he should do; he had to blast the safe open.

  Next he took strong adhesive plaster from the tool-kit at his waist and ran it round the door, pressing it tightly, aiming to keep as much of the sound as possible confined to the room.

  To break open a small carton of dynamite and force it into the lock-hole was the work of a few moments. He followed it with a two inch fuse, and then, taking the curtains down, draped them about the safe to lessen the noise still further. At last he struck a match.