Sport For The Baron Read online

  “Thirty,” said Mannering very promptly. If he made Sorenson think that he was determined to get the prize at all costs, he might make him drop out.

  Instead, Sorenson was back without the slightest pause.

  “Forty.”

  “Fifty.”

  Brutus was muttering under his breath and Mannering tried to hear what he said, but could not quite catch the words. The Australian’s blue eyes were fixed dynamically on Sorenson, his body as tense as a wire charged with electricity.

  Very deliberately, Sorenson said: “I bid six hundred and seventy-five thousand pounds.”

  There was a gasp, as if every person present had taken a deep breath. Men who had been in this business all their lives, collectors who kept millions of pounds-worth of precious things in their homes and galleries, others, who would not normally turn a hair or show any kind of excitement, turned their heads to look at Mannering, not at the man really responsible for this searing duel.

  What was Brutus muttering?

  Mannering felt a moment of anguish when he heard the “Six hundred and seventy-five” from the Texan. His mind seemed to be split into two, one part longing for the insignia, the other convinced that even if Brutus bought it, it would do him no good. These jewelled splendours belonged in some great museum or private home, where they could be loved - by some almost worshipped - not in a sheep station in the Australian outback,

  “Going at six hundred and seventy-five thousand pounds, for the first time,” the auctioneer called. He looked at Mannering.

  What was Brutus saying?

  “For the second time.”

  Brutus seemed to be hissing: “Seven, go to seven.”

  “For the third time.” Now the hammer was raised and Sorenson was beginning to smile.

  “Seven!” breathed Brutus.

  Something held Mannering back. His compulsive desire for the insignia was almost overwhelming, but suddenly he realized that in the last few moments he had become obsessed by his own passion for beautiful jewels with a history. Was he, in fact, considering his client’s real interest? The excitement had affected Brutus like a fever; he, too, had been temporarily carried away. His insistence on raising his figure was sheer folly, even six hundred thousand pounds, which he had quoted in cold blood, would have been crazy. Nevertheless, this was hardly Mannering’s responsibility. Brutus had asked him to bid seven - so why was he hesitating?

  In those few instants, as every face was turned towards him, Mannering’s head was a whirling maelstrom of conflicting thoughts and emotions.

  “For the fourth time,” the auctioneer was saying, and the hammer struck its block, a tiny little sound which echoed once, very clearly, about the room. “Sold to Mr. David Sorenson,” went on the auctioneer almost wearily, as if he also had suffered from the strain.

  Now Sorenson couldn’t stop smiling, in fact he was almost grinning, with delight.

  Then in a loud, clear voice, Nathaniel Brutus said: “You bloody pommie, you’ve sold me out.” As he spoke he stood up, and loomed over Mannering with both fists clenched; Mannering felt sure the man was going to strike him.

  Again, there was a hush, and again everyone stared.

  Then Brutus turned to Lorna.

  “This basket sold me out. He’ll sell you out. He’ll sell anyone out. Get him off your back, lady.”

  He looked at Mannering with searing contempt, then turned and pushed his way through the bewildered crowd. As he did so he passed near Sorenson, and said clearly: “Pay your cobber well, Yank. He really worked for you.”

  “How very unfortunate, Mannering.”

  “What a poor loser.”

  “Zis man, Mannering, ‘ow well do you know him?”

  “Bad show, John.”

  “John,” drawled Sorenson, “is the fella mad?”

  “Angry mad,” Mannering said.

  “He looked psychopathic mad to me.”

  “I hope you’re wrong,” Mannering said, but he was uneasy. With Lorna on his arm he moved towards the doors, and suddenly newspapermen besieged him, cameras clicked and flashed, more questions were flung at Mannering.

  “Who is he, Mr. Mannering?”

  “How long have you acted for him?”

  “Are you a friend of Mr. Sorenson?”

  “Who is he? . . . What’s his name? . . . Where does he live?...”

  In the street, it was beginning to rain for the first time for some weeks. The sky was overcast, umbrellas were mushrooming, tyres squeaking. Mannering and Lorna got into the first taxi which came along, and sank back in relief. Mannering said: “Hart Row, please.”

  “Hart where?”

  “Hart Row.”

  “It’s only round the corner if you walk.”

  “But it will take ten minutes by taxi,” Mannering said.

  “Well, if that’s what you want.” The taxi driver shrugged, and moved slowly into a stream of traffic as Mannering turned to Lorna, smiling wryly. Lorna was flushed; it made her dark blue eyes spark as if with anger. She hadn’t spoken a word since Brutus had stalked off, and she sat there silently.

  “My sweet, it wasn’t as bad as that,” Mannering protested.

  “John,” she said, “could he be a psychopath?”

  “Anyone could be.”

  “No. Don’t make light of it.”

  Mannering said almost ruefully: “I know what you mean. Amazing what an effect Nathaniel Brutus can have on one, isn’t it?”

  “He believed you sold him out,” said Lorna.

  “I know he did.”

  Lorna went on, almost as if something was forcing her to speak.

  “Did you?”

  “Now, come!”

  “John,” Lorna said, “you were acting for him. You’d seen his credentials. You knew he could afford it. He kept on telling you to go up to seven hundred thousand pounds.” She repeated this as if convincing herself. “Seven-hundred-thousand pounds! You must have heard him, but you didn’t take his instructions.”

  Mannering had drawn away from her.

  “Did you?” she persisted.

  He had to admit it. “No.”

  “Why not, John?”

  Very slowly and deliberately, Mannering said: “Are you really implying that I deliberately let Sorenson in?”

  After a pause, Lorna said in a helpless kind of voice: “That’s exactly what you did. You must have heard Brutus, and you didn’t take his instructions; so you did let Sorenson in. What on earth made you do it?” When Mannering didn’t answer but sat staring at her as if at a stranger, she went on: “You know what Brutus will think, don’t you? And others probably. They’ll think you had an arrangement with Sorenson.”

  She sat and looked at Mannering, and he had no doubt of the truth. Lorna, his wife, was prepared to believe, perhaps did believe, that he had made an under-cover deal with the Texan.

  Before he could speak, the taxi pulled up, and the cabby announced: “Hart Row.”

  4: MISTRUST

  Larraby and two assistants were in the shop. There could be little doubt that Larraby sensed that all was not well, for he did not inquire how the auction had gone, but simply welcomed Lorna and ushered her along, unlocking the door of Mannering’s office for her. She went straight in.

  “I don’t want to see anyone, Josh - particularly Brutus,” Mannering said quietly.

  “I’ll make sure you’re not disturbed,” Larraby promised.

  Mannering went in and closed the door. Lorna was standing in front of the desk, gazing up at a portrait she had painted of Mannering in the guise of a cavalier. It lacked the touch of greatness which the other picture had, but was nevertheless very good. Mannering stood watching her. He had a strange impression; that she was here and yet not with him; she preferred to look at the man of the portrait rather than the man of flesh and blood.

  “Lorna,” Mannering said.

  She continued to study the portrait.

  “Lorna,” Mannering repeated, taking her arm, “you cou
ldn’t be more wrong.”

  When she made no comment, one part of Mannering’s mind was resentful, almost angry, that she could think like this, but the other part faced the unpalatable fact that she did. He sensed that if he lost his temper, or said the wrong thing, even if he defended his motives too much, he would make the situation worse. Her profile was quite beautiful, so familiar and so well-loved. Why should she even suspect-

  She turned towards him, and he saw her as he knew others often did - frowning, almost sombre; in days gone by, some people had even called her sullen. Her eyes lacked their usual lustre, as if something had drawn much of the vitality out of her. It wasn’t a question of why did she suspect, rather how could he convince her that she was wrong?

  Then he felt as if something exploded inside his head, setting every nerve tingling and ringing, lighting up everything in his mind, creating a vividness of understanding which he had not even suspected before.

  She was right; he had let Brutus down.

  She was right; it did look as if there could be only one possible reason - collusion with Sorenson.

  She was right; Brutus would inevitably think he had been betrayed, and the trade might well have the same impression.

  This was not all.

  He could not satisfactorily answer the simple question, Why had he not gone up to seven hundred thousand? At first he hadn’t heard what Brutus was muttering, but he had understood well enough before the hammer had fallen. If he were challenged on motives, he could not explain because he did not know the explanation. There was a confusion of impressions in his mind. He wanted to tell Lorna what he was thinking, but there were two reasons why he did not. He couldn’t be lucid with her when his own mind was confused; and resentment was building up again, resentment that she did not simply take him on trust.

  She should, God knew, she should, as she had a hundred times in the past, over a hundred different issues, many of them grave. Why didn’t she now?

  He had to say something.

  He said: “You couldn’t be more wrong, but you feel quite sure you’re right, don’t you?”

  “I don’t know what I think,” Lorna said. “You didn’t . . .” she broke off.

  “I didn’t what?”

  “You didn’t see Brutus’s face, did you?”

  “I don’t know quite what you mean.”

  “You didn’t see his face while he waited for you to bid for him.”

  “I was trying to make up my mind. It seemed -” the very words sounded weak as he uttered them - “it seemed wrong for him to spend that money on the insignia.”

  “It was his money. If he was allowed a million pounds credit by the bank, he’s sure to have even more. You can’t have thought he couldn’t afford it.”

  Mannering said heavily: “I suppose not.”

  “There can’t be any argument about it,” Lorna said sharply.

  “I see.”

  “Obviously there can’t.”

  Mannering felt as if something inside him had turned to ice.

  “There isn’t much point in discussing it, is there?” he said.

  “I suppose not,” said Lorna in turn, but she didn’t look away. Warmth and light sprang into her eyes, and he knew that there was a change in her manner and her mood; the ice in his heart began to melt. She moved her hands forward and he took them lightly. “But we can’t leave it like this, can we?”

  “Can’t we agree that I was muddle-headed?”

  “But John,” Lorna said, “you never are.”

  The ice came back. He let her hands fall, backed away, and gave a short, sharp laugh.

  “No, I’m not, am I? So why was I this time? Or was I? Had I in fact a secret arrangement with Sorenson?”

  Lorna said: “Don’t be absurd, I know you hadn’t.” At least that was a concession. “But what I think you have - “

  “Go on,” Mannering said, flatly.

  “Oh, it doesn’t matter.”

  “As you said, we can’t really leave it like this,” Mannering reminded her. “We’d better talk it out. What do you think I have?”

  Lorna hesitated, obviously formulating her sentence with great care.

  “I think you are one of a privileged circle of collectors and galleries, and that you think Brutus is an outsider. So your subconscious reaction was to keep him out.”

  Mannering said blankly: “Oh.”

  “Isn’t that true?” Lorna demanded.

  “I don’t think my mind is working well this morning,” Mannering said. “I never was particularly strong on psychiatric and psychological analysis. I think they’re too often complicated for the sake of complication - but you know I think that.” He almost raised his voice to go on: “What on earth’s got into you? This is nonsense,” but he stopped himself. “If a man wants to buy, I don’t want to stop him.”

  “But you did stop this man.”

  It was unanswerable, so he did not attempt to answer.

  “John, why did you?” Lorna persisted.

  “We really must ask a psychiatrist,” Mannering said, offhandedly. “He might say that it was because I didn’t think the jewels were worth the money to Brutus, and that he was paying through the nose for something which didn’t mean a thing to him beyond the satisfaction of getting what he wanted. If he’d gone for something more reasonable . . .”

  “Didn’t mean anything to him!” interpolated Lorna.

  “They couldn’t have meant more than the satisfaction of having possession - or of making sure someone else didn’t.”

  “Your friends, you mean,” said Lorna, almost acidly. “If only you’d seen his face.”

  “I’ve seen all I want to of his face.”

  “I mean at that particular moment.”

  Mannering moved to his desk, sat down, and studied Lorna intently - more intently, perhaps, than he had done for a long time. She was older. Not old, in fact hardly middle-aged, but the years had left signs of their passing. She was beautiful as he had always known her to be, but - and this was an awful thought - it was almost as if he were seeing her for the first time. In a fantastic way it was like looking at the face of a stranger. Beyond all doubt there was something about her which he had never noticed before.

  “And you did see what he looked like at that moment,” Mannering said drily.

  “Yes I did.”

  “What was it, precisely?”

  “Something I’ve only seen once or twice in my life,” Lorna answered. “I don’t really know how to describe it. It was a quality I think I would give ten years of my life to put on canvas. Of course, I can’t. I couldn’t. I doubt if it could be done, but - how I would love to.” She spoke in a low-pitched voice obviously groping for something which defied definition.

  How bloody silly could he become?

  “It’s the thing I used to sense in you,” Lorna continued. “I always tried to capture it, but never really succeeded. His very soul was in his face, in his eyes.”

  Mannering checked himself from echoing “Soul?” sarcastically.

  “Do you know what I mean?” Lorna went on.

  “I’m trying to understand.”

  “Do try, John. I don’t believe it was simply that he wanted the jewels for the sake of possession. It was much more - he had seen something which gave a purpose, a meaning - oh, I know this sounds like claptrap, I’m not really making sense, but - you know what a child’s face looks like, sometimes, when it wants something desperately, a kind of yearning. A child wants with all the intensity it’s capable of, withholding nothing. Brutus looked like that.”

  She stopped staring at Mannering; and she was still a stranger. His voice was flat and rather gruff when he spoke.

  “He certainly made a great impression on you.”

  “Yes,” Lorna admitted simply.

  Mannering shrugged. “What do you want me to do?”

  “I don’t understand you.”

  “Aren’t you saying you want me to find Brutus and try to heal his wound
s?”

  Lorna looked away quickly, and he knew at once that he had said something wrong, had struck the false note he had been striving to avoid. He went on hastily: “That wasn’t meant sarcastically.”

  “Wasn’t it?” Lorna asked.

  Mannering said with sudden heat: “Lorna, what on earth are we doing? Quarrelling over this? Can’t we get it out of our minds?” When she didn’t answer, he went on almost bitterly: “But, of course, I didn’t see him at the moment of disappointment.”

  “No,” said Lorna. “I only wish you had.” She moved again, much more briskly, towards the door. “It must be getting near one, and I’ve a luncheon date.” She didn’t say with whom she was going to lunch, but turned the handle. “You won’t forget that we’re seeing the Plenders for dinner tonight, will you?”

  She went out, without closing the door, and for a few seconds he heard her footsteps muffled by the runners. Larraby murmured something to her, so did one of the assistants, then the shop door opened and closed. The silence which followed was something imposed, heavy, intolerable. Mannering stayed without moving for a long time. Larraby paused for an instant by the open door and Mannering was aware of him but did not speak or show any sign of attention. After a few minutes, the telephone bell on the Welsh dresser rang. Larraby answered so quickly that he must have been at his stool.

  “This is Quinn’s . . . I’m not sure, sir, will you please hold on.” There was a pause, then a tap at the door, which opened wider. Larraby stood still.

  “Well?”

  “Mr. Sorenson would like a word with you, sir. He is catching a plane back to New York this evening.”

  “Oh,” said Mannering. “Sorenson. Yes.” He picked up the receiver of the extension to the shop telephone. “Hallo, David? Nice of you to ring.”

  “Nice of me, nothing,” Sorenson said. “John, I didn’t want to go back without a word with you. I want you to know how sorry I am about the bother this morning. When that guy talked to you that way. I thought he’d gone crazy.”

  “I still think he might have,” Mannering said,

  “It wouldn’t have been so bad if the newspapers hadn’t got hold of it,” Sorenson said.

  “Newspapers?” echoed Mannering, startled.