Last Laugh for the Baron Read online

  Mannering’s head jolted up.

  “Seriously?” Then he almost withdrew the word, for Larraby would not have troubled him had the interest been less than serious. “Have you told him the price?”

  “Yes – forty-eight thousand pounds.”

  “And?”

  “He asked whether forty thousand would be considered.”

  “Did he, by Jove,” said Mannering. “Did he say anything else?”

  “He is flying to New York tomorrow and would like to know before he leaves London. He . . .” Larraby hesitated, and then went on: “I really feel it would be wise for you to see him, sir.”

  “Yes,” Mannering agreed. “Yes. Josh . . .”

  “Sir?”

  “Did you speak to the young woman who called herself Belle Danizon?”

  “I did indeed.”

  “Did she make any threats?”

  “No threats, sir, but . . .” Larraby hesitated before going on: “She was very self-willed, sir.”

  “Did you hear her talking to me?”

  Larraby nodded.

  “Was she—did she sound—odd in any way?”

  “There was a strangeness in her manner,” Larraby conceded. “And just before her visit a man . . . “ He broke off, spreading pale hands which were mottled a faint brown and on which the veins showed blue. “But you really should see—”

  “Mr. Hirioto,” Mannering remembered.

  “Tiro, sir. He has very limited time.”

  “Ah, yes. I’m being rude. Ask him in, will you?”

  Mannering frowned as Larraby left, looked down at his notes, saw ‘veiled threats’ and wondered whether he was deceiving himself, then looked up to see the Japanese entering, a faint smile giving a hint of the enigmatic to a face of honey-brown.

  “Mr. Tiro – please come in.”

  “You are very good to make time to see me,” Tiro said in a soft voice. “Your manager has given me much instruction already.” There were a few seconds spent in formalities, in sitting down, offering cigarettes – and Mannering gave the faint nod which told Larraby he wanted tea brought in. The door closed on Larraby as Mannering said: “I understand that your time in London is limited.”

  “That is so, Mr. Mannering, to my deep regret. London is such a remarkable city – a city with warmth and heart, and with so many beautiful stores, such as Quinns. I have never enough time to spend in it.”

  “How serious are you about the Rapui Crown?” asked Mannering. He settled back, giving the man his full attention. “Are you a collector?”

  “In a small way, yes. But the Crown would not be for my humble collection, Mr. Mannering. It would be for the Eastern and Oriental Museum of New York. You have heard of it, no doubt.”

  “Yes, of course,” Mannering said, and after a pause he went on: “But I understood that it is short of funds.”

  “Recently there has been a great benefactor,” stated Tiro. “I am on the board of the museum and I am authorised to make inquiries and to make offers which have to be confirmed. I am offering forty thousand pounds for the Rapui Crown, and I can confirm the offer in seventy-two hours. Would you hold it for me on those terms, Mr. Mannering?”

  After only a moment of hesitation, Mannering agreed.

  For the first time, a hint of animation broke through Tiro’s oriental passivity.

  “You will hold it for three days – and if you have a larger offer meanwhile you will give the museum a chance to bid against that offer?”

  “No,” Mannering said. “It is the museum’s for forty thousand pounds, if they formally accept within seventy-two hours.”

  “You are very kind, Mr. Mannering. I offer my grateful thanks.”

  Half-an-hour later. Tiro’s offer made in writing, Mannering saw him to the door. The Japanese, so short and yet so sturdy, walked briskly towards Bond Street. Mannering went back to his office, beckoning Larraby as he entered.

  “Was it a satisfactory discussion?” Larraby asked.

  “I think so,” Mannering said. “Josh, telephone Mr. Rennie in New York and ask if the Eastern and Oriental Museum on Central Park East and 91st Street has recently come into money and whether there is a Mr. Hirioto Tiro on the board of directors.”

  “At once, sir.”

  “Thanks. And Josh—”

  “Sir.”

  “Had you ever seen Belle Danizon before?”

  “I had not, sir.”

  “Neither had I.”

  “But—” Larraby looked astonished. “I quite got the impression that she knew you.”

  “She gave me that impression, too,” Mannering said drily. “I wonder what she was up to.” He shrugged, glanced at his notes again, and then saw Larraby’s expression – one almost of bewilderment. “So you’ve remembered her,” he remarked.

  “Indeed I haven’t, sir,” said Larraby. “But just before she arrived there was another remarkable incident. And . . .” he glanced towards the door – “I quite expected Smith back by now.” He told the story of the telephone call, and as he drew towards the end, he hesitated for so long that Mannering prompted him.

  “What was so worrying, Josh?”

  “It will sound quite ridiculous, sir, I’m sure,” Larraby said. “There was a laugh.”

  “A laugh?”

  “Yes, sir. A deep, very amused laugh which . . .” Again Larraby hesitated, but this time Mannering made no attempt to prompt him. “It—ah—drew nearer, sir. I had a feeling that someone had opened a door and entered the room, laughing, and continued to laugh until he took the receiver from the man who had called me, and hung up. He—ah—he did not appear to stop laughing at all.”

  “And the caller?”

  “He gave one stifled—frightened—gasp, sir, that was all. I had the impression that he was terrified, but he might well have been putting on an act.” After another pause, Larraby went on in a puzzled voice: “Could there have been a connection between the two, I wonder? The call itself was most unsettling, and the laugh made it quite—quite macabre, sir. Miss Danizon’s behaviour was unsettling, too. Could there—?” He broke off.

  “Be a deliberate attempt, to unsettle me,” suggested Mannering.

  “I did wonder, sir.”

  “And I’m wondering, too,” said Mannering. “There isn’t much we can do about it except keep our ears and eyes open. Talk to Mr. Rennie, Josh, will you?”

  “At once,” promised Larraby, again.

  For twenty minutes, Mannering sat looking through files of inquiries for certain kinds and periods of old jewellery, and objets d’art. He liked to do this every day; it was a kind of therapy – and always, if he were ruffled, it had a soothing effect on him. For here were letters and telegrams from every part of the globe; from individual collectors, curators of museums, libraries and universities, all vying, in their deep desire, for the rare treasures of the ancient world. There was no end to their variety, nor to the prices offered. In one section of the file, inside an envelope, was a list of buyers who preferred to remain anonymous; even some who offered for stolen pieces, as well as some who simply preferred to gloat, like Croesus over his gold, over the rare pieces that they bought.

  Today there was only one letter of immediate interest, and that was from the Royal Household of Allodia, offering twenty thousand pounds for the Crown. But this was barely half its value.

  Mannering had left his door ajar and had heard Larraby talking. Now he heard the ting of the receiver and the creak of Larraby’s chair.

  “Come in, Josh,” Mannering called.

  Larraby appeared.

  “Mr. Tiro is authorised to bid, sir, and the Museum of Eastern and Oriental Art has recently received a bequest of some half-a-million dollars.”

  “Not pounds?”

  �
�No, sir.”

  “I can’t see them spending nearly a quarter of the bequest on the Rapui Crown,” Mannering said. “We’ll soon know. Is Aristide back yet?”

  “No, he isn’t, sir,” Larraby answered uneasily. “I really do hope—” He broke off, apologetically. “I really shouldn’t have sent him, sir.”

  “Nonsense,” said Mannering. “It was exactly what I would have done myself. He’ll turn up.”

  It was then nearly a quarter to five.

  At half-past five, the normal closing hour, Aristide Smith still hadn’t returned; nor had he telephoned. Larraby, obviously very uneasy, found some slight easement from the fact that he lived in the small flat above the shop.

  “I will be here whatever time he comes back, sir, or if he telephones. Will you be at home this evening?”

  “Not after seven-thirty,” Mannering said. “I have the Charity Ball.”

  “Oh, of course, sir. I’m probably making a mountain out of a molehill. Smith is sure to be back before long.”

  But he was not back, nor had the telephone rung, by seven o’clock. Larraby, preparing a simple supper of scrambled eggs and mushrooms, with strawberries and cream to follow, wondered whether to telephone Mannering.

  Mannering, quite startlingly handsome, in tails and wearing decorations won in war as well as in peace, was waiting for his wife just before half-past seven. And while he waited, he telephoned Larraby. He heard the lack of news, put down the receiver and turned to see Lorna coming out of her bedroom.

  Mannering’s eyes lit up and his heart contracted.

  She wore dark red velvet, high at the neck but with her shoulders bare, a single diamond clip at her waist; she was as slender now as when she and Mannering had married, over twenty years before. The dress, snug at bosom, waist and knees, ballooned out about her ankles. Her black hair, only slightly flecked with grey, was high-swept, held by a single diamond-studded comb.

  Mannering stepped towards her.

  “Darling,” he said quietly, “you look magnificent.”

  Pleased, she put her cheek forward to be kissed. Then, almost at once, they went out of this top floor flat in an old house in Chelsea, to the small lift and down to the waiting, chauffeur-driven hired car.

  Mannering, proud of his wife, sat back and watched her, completely forgetting Aristide Smith.

  But Larraby did not forget him.

  Mannering would not have given Smith another thought that evening, but three hours after the ball had begun, when the great Albert Hall was a blaze of lights and a place of music and beauty and elegance, he came face to face with Belle Danizon.

  She looked at him, haughtily, as she swept past on the arm of a middle-aged, grey-haired man. As they passed, the man chuckled. It was a deep, infectious chuckle and it made many revellers turn and stare.

  3

  MISSING

  “What a lovely young woman,” Lorna murmured.

  “You mean the girl in blue?” Mannering asked.

  “She isn’t quite a girl,” Lorna said, but there was no malice or hint of spitefulness. She was one of the most renowned portrait painters in England and when she saw a face she saw it transferred to canvas rather than as a person. “And—what a handsome man.”

  “Was he?” asked Mannering, in surprise.

  They looked at each other and laughed – but that was the moment when Mannering wondered whether Aristide Smith was back.

  Twice during the evening they saw the girl dancing, once with her middle-aged escort, and once with a younger man. Mannering, carefully disguising his interest,

  “Could you do a sketch of all three?”

  Lorna did not need to ask ‘which three’.

  “Yes,” she said. “But why?”

  “I’ll tell you later,” Mannering said.

  Then an old friend of Lorna came and carried her off to the buffet, and Mannering slipped outside and telephoned Josh, although it was after one o’clock. Larraby answered the call so quickly that he must have been wide awake.

  “Any news, Josh?” asked Mannering.

  “Not a word of any kind,” Larraby answered. “At midnight I telephoned Smith’s flat, but there was no reply.

  “I really am getting worried, sir.”

  “Yes,” said Mannering. “Have you tried any of the hospitals?”

  “I’ve wondered whether I should,” Larraby said. “I will, immediately.”

  “I’ll call you again before I leave here,” promised Mannering.

  He turned away from the telephone booth – and then, going back into the ballroom, saw a tall man on whom tails and white tie sat well. He had a broad face with deep-set brown eyes and a lot of freckles. He smiled faintly at Mannering, who paused.

  “Good evening, Mr. Mannering.”

  “Hallo, Inspector,” Mannering said quietly. “Making sure we all behave?”

  “Trying to,” said Chief Inspector Gordon of the Criminal Investigation Department of the Metropolitan Police.

  “How is Mr. Bristow?” inquired Mannering.

  Gordon hesitated, for a split second only but long enough to make Mannering wonder.

  “He’s very well, sir.”

  “He hasn’t many weeks left, has he?”

  “Three, sir,” said Gordon. “Then he retires.”

  Mannering raised his eyebrows.

  “As soon as that—I hadn’t realised.”

  Thinking of Bristow put him in a strangely nostalgic mood; in fact, Aristide’s disappearance, the two strange incidents at Quinns and the trio here at the ball, all contributed to a kind of disquiet which was very much with him when Lorna came back on the arm of her escort. They were with a crowd for a few minutes, then alone on the dance floor.

  “What is it, John?” Lorna asked.

  “Do I look as preoccupied as all that?” he asked, startled.

  “I know that faraway look in your eyes only too well,” Lorna rejoined.

  “We had a visit from the not-so-young woman at Quinns this afternoon and . . .” Mannering broke off, his eyes twinkling at her. “But this is no time for a tale of mystery. If I slip off without you, would you get Tommy to take you home and telephone Josh to say I’ll see him in the morning?”

  “Josh? At this time of night?” For the first time, Lorna looked worried. “What is it, John? And who—?”

  She stopped in turn, for Mannering, staring past her towards the box where the trio had been sitting, saw them gathering up their things. He guided Lorna to the side of the floor.

  “Tell you later,” he said, and disappeared.

  Lorna had often known Mannering behave like this throughout the years of their marriage. It never failed to worry her, never failed to make her wonder whether, one day, he would simply walk off and never come back. But she showed no sign of anxiety as Tommy Garth came up.

  “Deserted?” he asked.

  “For the rest of the evening,” Lorna admitted, feeling rather forlorn.

  “Oh, good! But how any man could be such an ass as to walk out on the most beautiful woman in London, I don’t know.” Tommy smiled at her admiringly “Care to dance?”

  “I’d love to.”

  As she danced she looked everywhere about the ballroom, but saw no sign of Mannering or of the girl in blue and her two companions.

  Mannering stepped out into the welcome coolness of the night. Wherever he looked, the tall street lights shone on the shining roofs of cars. Three or four policemen stood about, and a police car drove slowly by.

  Mannering went across to his own car, and at once the driver materialised out of the shadows.

  “Ready to leave, sir?”

  “Yes. Can you pull out of the line straight away?”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “I’ll ge
t in,” Mannering said, “and I want you to follow another car when I tell you.”

  “Right, sir!” The chauffeur was obviously both eager and intrigued.

  Mannering sat back in a corner and watched the main exit. There were others, of course, the trio might have decided to go out by one of them, but – no! There they were!

  They were together, the girl in the middle, her arms linked with a man on either side. They passed under a street lamp and stepped into the road, and Mannering was caught for a moment by the beauty of the girl and the attractiveness of the picture. The young man was speaking and there was a touch of gaiety in his manner. The girl looked up at him.

  And then the other man laughed; a deep, echoing laugh, sounding strangely sinister. Mannering shivered, remembering Larraby’s story and how Larraby had been affected. And he remembered that Aristide Smith had been sent out to watch and to follow two men who might be those involved.

  They disappeared out of his line of vision but he saw them getting into another car, twenty yards or so behind his own.

  “That’s the car to follow,” Mannering said to his chauffeur. “Do you know any of them?”

  “I know Miss Danizon and her cousin, Bruce Danizon,” the man answered. “I’ve never seen the older man before.”

  Other couples and small parties were leaving the hall, so there was nothing surprising in two cars going off at the same moment and taking the same route. Mannering, still sitting back, saw the tail lights of the leading car as it went along Kensington Road to Knightsbridge, past Harrods, then towards the underpass to Piccadilly.

  “If they take the underpass you take the Hyde Park Corner Road and pick them up again.”

  “We could lose them, sir,” warned the chauffeur.

  “Take the chance,” Mannering insisted.

  The chauffeur put on speed. The car ahead took the underpass and Mannering’s sped past Hyde Park and the tall gates, then without hindrance to Piccadilly; there was hardly any traffic. Mannering watched the road, and as they drew level with the exit of the underpass, the other car appeared and he caught a glimpse of the younger man’s head, turned in his direction. There was a possibility that the others had deliberately slowed down in order to allow Mannering’s car to take the lead.