Sport For The Baron Read online

  “Why, sure. John, I want you to know that I didn’t say a word out of place. I had three newspapermen follow me from the auction rooms, but I gave them all the conventional answers.” There was a pause, before Sorenson went on with obvious embarrassment: “You know how these guys twist things, don’t you? Why, they even put words in your mouth.”

  Mannering thought: What is he really saying? Aloud, he asked quite sharply: “What questions did they ask?”

  “John, they were crazy men.”

  “What did they want to know?”

  “Oh, heck, John, I just have to go. They asked if we had discussed the Alda jewels before and I told them yes, in passing, that you knew I was coming over to bid for them. They wanted to know if we ever did business together, and well, heck, I couldn’t say we never had, could I? John, I’m sorry, but I’ve a lunch-time appointment, I just have to go. When will I see you again in New York or Dallas? Don’t make it so long next time. Good-bye now.”

  Mannering said stonily: “Have a good flight.”

  Sorenson’s telephone was down first. Mannering put his on the cradle very slowly and deliberately. Then he stood up, feeling almost dazed, as if these things were not really happening to him. He opened the door, and saw Larraby at the dresser-desk.

  “Josh, I want to know where Nathaniel Brutus is staying. Get everyone onto it.” As he spoke, he realized that he should have known, should have asked Brutus last night: he had never taken the Australian seriously, and that was a mistake he was already regretting very much indeed.

  5: FLIGHT 701

  Larraby went out to start the inquiries, and Mannering sorted through a pile of books and magazines on a shelf behind him. He selected three glossy magazines. Apollo, The Antiquarian and The Fine Arts World. All were very heavy, all were full of advertisements of antiques, objets d’art and paintings, each had a few articles about collectors’ items and forthcoming auctions. He thumbed through The Fine Arts World first, almost sure he would find what he wanted there, for it carried world-wide news of auctions and sale-rooms. Towards the back was a section marked ‘Australia’. He pressed the magazine open, and glanced at several advertisements of pieces offered for sale. Then he turned a leaf and came upon a double-page spread. One side read:

  MELBURY HOUSE GREAT SALE

  of antiques, jewellery, paintings known to be the FINEST PRIVATE COLLECTION in the Southern Hemisphere.

  On the other page were details of the sale itself:

  The Sale will be held at Melbury House, in New South Wales, equidistant from Sydney (NSW) and Melbourne (VIC) and close to CANBERRA - AUSTRALIAN CAPITAL

  The goods offered will be on display at:

  Melbury House OCTOBER 5 - 12

  The Sale itself will begin on OCTOBER 14 and will continue for as long a period as necessary.

  Catalogues and other details will be sent airmail to any part of the world.

  It was now the twentieth of September.

  As Mannering finished reading the announcement, there was a tap, and Larraby came in. Mannering looked up, surprised by his own eagerness.

  “Traced him?”

  “In a way, sir.”

  “What does that mean?”

  “He has been staying at the Park Lane Hilton, but he paid his bill half-an-hour ago and left by taxi for London Airport,” Larraby reported.

  “Oh,” said Mannering. “So he’s going home.”

  “His passage was booked by telephone at about half-past eleven, sir, yes. To Sydney.”

  “What flight?” demanded Mannering, and then realized that it was absurd to expect Larraby to know.

  “There is a Qantas flight at two-thirty, sir - late because of a postponement. It is the only direct flight today.”

  “Thanks,” said Mannering. “All right, Josh.” He leaned back in his chair. “Have you heard of my heinous crime?”

  “I understand there was a little misunderstanding,” Larraby replied. “I’m very sorry about it, Mr. Mannering.”

  “Yes.” Mannering pursed his lips, and said quickly: “Send someone out for a sandwich and some coffee for me, and have my car brought round at one-thirty sharp. And send in any mail for me to sign before I leave, in case I’m delayed.”

  “Very good,” said Larraby.

  After the manager had gone, Mannering stood up rather self-consciously, and stepped round the desk to contemplate the portrait. He could remember how happy Lorna had been while she had been painting it; happy and carefree. In those days they had been carefree much of the time, light-hearted, gay, and always content with each other. Not long ago there had been a period when they had seemed to be drifting apart, but that had soon passed, and for a while they had been back to their old enjoyment of being together. In the past two or three months Mannering had been preoccupied with some big deals and Lorna had been furiously busy in her studio above their Chelsea apartment; it was easy to realize, now, that they had seen very little of each other. Certainly something had gone adrift; this morning’s situation would never have developed had everything been normal between them.

  Without any conscious process of reasoning, Mannering came to a simple conclusion; he had to put things right. It would be useless to sink into a mood of exasperation, or to start persuading himself that this was Lorna’s fault. He was quite sure of one fact: she would be as anxious as he to get back to an even keel.

  There was one obvious thing to do.

  At twenty-five past one, his car was outside the shop, a black Allard with a turn of speed and a rakish appearance which he never failed to relish. He slid behind the wheel, watched by several passers-by and by the assistants in the shop, and started off. With luck he would reach London Airport in thirty-five minutes. He turned into Bond Street, then cut through towards Piccadilly, passed Hyde Park Corner, and settled down to a straight run. Traffic was light, as it often was at lunch-time, and he had no problems until he was past the Chiswick Fly-Over, and on the Great West Road. Suddenly, he was behind a whole stream of crawling traffic. Five minutes later he began to wonder if he would reach the airport in time. Ten minutes later still, the traffic began to move past a broken-down petrol tanker, and he became hopeful again.

  What on earth was the matter with him?

  He should have allowed another half-hour. If he had really wanted to see Brutus, he would have left much earlier. As he sped along the Bath Road he found himself asking: “Do I really want to see him?”

  After a pause, he asked again: “Or do I simply want Lorna to think I did?”

  He swung into the airfield, went under the tunnel, and pulled up outside the main approach to customs. A porter came up.

  “Which flight, sir?”

  “Qantas, to Sydney.”

  “Bit tight for that,” the man remarked. “It’s due off in ten minutes, the passengers are embarking now. Where’s your baggage, sir?”

  Mannering thrust a pound-note in his hand.

  “I’ll be back in ten minutes,” he said.

  He went racing up the stairs, no longer in any doubt that he wanted to see Brutus, positively fearful that he wouldn’t. He needed the luck to run across a customs man or an airport police officer whom he knew. Almost at once he saw the Chief Inspector whom he had known for years.

  “Hallo, Mr. Mannering. What’s your hurry today?”

  “I’d like a word with a passenger on the Qantas Flight,” Mannering said breathlessly.

  “Not much time,” said the Chief Inspector. “They’re walking across. Let’s see what we can do.” He took Mannering’s arm and they half-ran past Customs and the Immigration Officers to the cordoned-off space where the passengers were filing through onto the airfield. Mannering did not see Brutus. An announcer called:

  “Flight 701. Qantas Airways, calling at Rome, Beirut, Delhi, and Sydney, will leave from Bay Twelve, at fourteen-thirty. This is the last call.”

  “Any luck?” the Inspector asked.

  “It looks as if he’s gone ahead.”

 
“I don’t know that I can help you any more,” the man said regretfully.

  “No,” said Mannering. Suddenly it became glaringly obvious that to snatch a word with Brutus would be sheer folly; he needed twenty minutes’ discussion at least. So he made himself speak lightly. “Very many thanks for trying. I left it too late.”

  From just behind him, Brutus said searingly: “You leave everything too late.”

  Mannering spun round. Brutus was dressed exactly as he had been that morning, and was carrying a valise which had seen much better days. Under his arm was a newspaper. He stood absolutely unmoving, staring at Mannering. Mannering was aware of every feature, chiselled as if from coloured marble, and he could almost feel the other’s penetrating gaze.

  “I’ve time to say this,” Mannering said. “I’m sorry I let you down.”

  “Try telling someone else that,” Brutus retorted. “You’re a snake.” He snatched the newspaper from under his arm and thrust it at Mannering, who took it mechanically; then he pushed past, and disappeared. No one else was near, only the Inspector had witnessed the brief encounter.

  “Well, what about that?” he said.

  Mannering didn’t speak, and the Inspector gave a strained little laugh.

  “You, a snake!”

  Mannering drew a deep breath.

  “That’s what he thinks.”

  “He made that obvious,” said the Inspector ruefully. “Well, you caught up with him.”

  Mannering said, “I certainly did.” He unfolded The Evening Globe, feeling quite sure that Brutus had thrust it into his hands for a purpose. There was nothing on the front page, but on the inside page opposite the leader were a headline and a photograph.

  The photograph was of himself.

  The headline read:

  FRACAS AT CATESBY’s

  FAMOUS DEALER ACCUSED

  He skimmed through the story, at first hardly taking it in, but as he began to read it a second time, the ugly truth dawned on him; this was almost damning.

  Two men wanted the Alda insignia - a man from Texas and a man from Australia. The Texan got what he wanted. The Australian got what he believes was a raw deal. He had arranged for a dealer of world-wide repute to bid higher for him, and the dealer - famous John Mannering, owner of Quinn’s - didn’t speak, nod, blink, or cross his legs, any of which actions would have constituted a bid in the sacrosanct atmosphere of Catesby’s.

  It wasn’t particularly sacrosanct this morning. In fact the indignant digger nearly dotted the offending pommie on the nose.

  John Mannering (see picture) is an old friend of Texan multi-millionaire, David Sorenson. Mr. Sorenson says they have done a lot of business together. Mr. Mannering was not available for questioning. Perhaps he doesn’t want us to know the answers.

  P.S. The insignia went for six hundred and seventy-five thousand pounds. The bid not made might have been for a lot more. But for one person being tongue-tied, the Alda Estate might be considerably better off. So would the Exchequer. So would our export drive.

  Mannering was aware of the Inspector looking at him intently, but he could hardly make himself speak. He moistened his lips, folded the paper, then suddenly thrust it into the other’s hand.

  “Read what a snake I am,” he said. “I’m really grateful to you.”

  He turned and hurried off. He did not speak to the porter who stood faithfully by his car, but gave him another pound note, took the wheel, and drove off. The porter stared at him dazedly. The engine roared, and a little car coming into the service road swerved sharply out of the way.

  “Damned fool,” Mannering muttered. “Get a hold on yourself.”

  It wasn’t easy, but he slowed down, and made himself think deliberately. Undoubtedly that was a vicious write-up, almost as if someone wanted to stick a knife in his back, but even if the facts - facts, remember - were related in a different way and without the vitriolic pen, the same impression would emerge, that he had betrayed much more than the Australian - he had betrayed a client’s trust. And trust in his particular business was as vital as the air he breathed.

  By far the worst feature of the article was the implication that by his failure he had lost the Estate a large sum of money.

  And he had. Had he done what Brutus had told him, the Estate would have benefited by at least another twenty-five thousand pounds. No one could blame the beneficiaries for censuring him, for accusing him. It did not matter which way he looked at the situation, it seemed to get worse.

  Had Lorna foreseen these consequences?

  In any case, why hadn’t he?

  If it came to that, why hadn’t he made that bid?

  The truth, Mannering realized, was that he would never know the answer. There must have been a deep psychological reason. It was no use sneering at psychology or at Lorna about that. But if he himself didn’t know, how could he explain it to others? How could he make denials which did not sound empty and hollow?

  He turned left, away from London, and was soon on the open road. He let the engine full out. Five minutes of high speed did him good. Hardly thinking, he turned off the main highway, and soon found himself near the river. He pulled off the road and sat at the wheel, smoking, one moment thinking, the next trying not to think; he simply didn’t know how to cope.

  A car passed from behind, with a girl at the wheel; an open sports car and a bare-headed girl. She slowed down, and glanced over her shoulder. He continued to stare after her. She drove on, but pulled off the road a few hundred yards further along.

  Suddenly, Mannering found himself longing for company.

  6: RIVERSIDE

  The girl was sitting at the wheel of the car, a red M.G., facing the river where it was divided into two channels by an island crowded with beech and birch saplings, thickets of bramble and masses of ferns. All of these were beginning to turn colour in autumn’s slow advance. The river flowed, smooth as molten glass, carrying small branches, twigs, ice cream papers and a beer-can, to gather against a jutting bank and create a miniature cascade.

  It was very warm.

  Mannering pulled his car alongside the M.G., and looked down at the driver. She smiled up at him. She was in the early thirties, he imagined, quietly but expensively dressed in a blue linen suit. Her eyes were grey, clear, heavily touched with pale eyeshade. She had an attractiveness which few women possessed, and carried the serenity of one absolutely sure of herself.

  “Hallo,” she said.

  “Hallo.”

  “Did I stop for you or did you follow me?”

  Mannering smiled. “Both, I hope.”

  Her smile widened. She wasn’t beautiful in the true sense, but flaunted its sophisticated equivalent. On one side of her mouth just below the corner - he couldn’t be sure whether imposed by art or nature - was a small beauty spot.

  “I’ll go along with both,” she conceded. “Why did you follow me?”

  “Why does a man follow an attractive woman?”

  “My, my,” she said. “A big bad wolf.”

  Mannering laughed, but the laugh concealed a sudden, almost startled thought. “Wolf.” That was exactly how he was behaving - like a wolf. What on earth was happening to him? He was still looking down into the woman’s face, liking the way her lips curved.

  “Aren’t you used to big bad wolves?” he asked.

  “Not in Allards.”

  “What do they usually drive?”

  “Jaguars.”

  “That’s an interesting social phenomenon,” Mannering said. “The manufacturers ought to know about it.” As he spoke a droning sound drew closer and louder, and he glanced up. A huge aircraft was circling and climbing, the jet-streams from the four engines still thick and dark. For the first time since setting eyes on the woman he thought of Nathaniel Brutus. This wasn’t the Qantas aircraft, which would be a hundred miles away by now, but he gave that little thought. Not until this moment had he realized how heavily the shadow had lain upon him, nor how completely it had cleared in the pas
t few minutes.

  There was a quizzical expression in the woman’s eyes. “Conscience?” she asked.

  “What on earth for?”

  “You looked up at the aircraft as if you were saying goodbye to someone near and dear, whom you’d forgotten for a while.”

  “Did I?”

  “Wife, perhaps?”

  “In fact, a he.”

  She persisted, half-serious, half-amused. “Son?”

  He thought: I haven’t a son. Is that what’s wrong with Lorna and me? No son, no daughter? He wondered with a sudden flash of intuition whether this was the cause of Lorna’s restlessness. The fact that she was always involved with exhibitions, painting, sitters; even when she had a little time to herself, she would arrange to have someone in to dinner, or to go out. “Don’t forget we’re dining with the Plenders.” It was a kind of refrain. “We’re going here, we’re going there.” “I’m doing this, I have to do that.”

  Now he was blaming Lorna, which was nonsense. He, too, was always working.

  Working.

  There was no need for it. Money was no longer an incentive, and hadn’t been for some time. Success, then? But they were at the top of their respective callings. Lorna could easily have three commissions for each one she accepted. He-

  His supremacy in his field, which demanded absolute integrity, was being questioned. Who the hell had written that piece? Was it out of spite, or sheer envy? Or could it have been justified, at least by appearances?

  The woman in the M.G. broke through the medley of his thoughts. He had looked away from her towards the island, now he looked back at her.

  “You’re not very gallant,” she said.

  “I’m not?” He was wool-gathering.

  “You had to be reminded that I was here.”

  “Yes,” he said. “Yes.” To say he was sorry would be naive, it wasn’t the right thing here and now; he had to make a comment which would intrigue her. She crinkled up her eyes at the corners and looked a little older because of it. Older? More mature. “I’d forgotten you. I would much rather have forgotten the man up there.”