The Baron Returns Read online

The next moment he stood staring at the words. There were three names, which by themselves meant nothing, yet in the light of events might mean a great deal. They were written in Teevens’s sprawling writing:

  Purnall. (This was crossed through.)

  Didcotte.

  Fauntley.

  Fauntley!

  That was Lord Fauntley without a doubt, and Mannering felt certain this was a list of people whom Teevens meant to victimise. The cancelled name of Alice Purnall made that obvious. Mannering stood staring into space, marvelling at the twist of fate which had made him throw down the gauntlet for Alice Purnall.

  Now he was throwing it down for Lorna Fauntley’s father. And for Lorna he would do anything in the world.

  Chapter Four

  BILL BRISTOW’S ADVICE

  The discovery of the list of names was more of a shock than Mannering realised, but it did not affect him immediately. He slipped the paper into his wallet, bundled the money and jewels into a parcel, and hurried from the flat. The parcel had to be posted to Wimbledon before the police could find it in his rooms, for he felt sure that Bristow would come.

  He had other urgent things to do, and there was no time to think until they were finished. What little passed through his mind was about Philippa Grey, and the quixotic, if idiotic thing she had done for Alice Purnall. That he had been equally quixotic did not occur to him; it was odd that he was often acutely aware of the uglier side of cracksmanship – robbing people he knew – yet rarely pondered over the fact that he used the profit more for other people than himself, especially for Lorna Fauntley, who so often needed money.

  It took fifteen minutes to reach the post-office and return to Bloom Street. No one was about, apart from tradesmen, and no one was waiting outside his flat. He smiled to himself as he took off the evening clothes.

  Then he discovered that there were marks of the lead shot in his coat; it was a good thing he had been wearing an overcoat when the sergeant had been near him.

  He hung the coat in his wardrobe, and stripped for a quick cold tub and a brisk rub down. He felt tired but hungry, and before he had a nap he wanted to eat. He was in the middle of bacon and tomatoes – the service at that block of flats was excellent – when the knock came at the door to tell him of the expected visitor. He opened the door, and saw the spruce figure of Detective-Superintendent William Bristow.

  Bristow was a pleasant-faced, clean-cut looking man, with a grey moustache clipped close and stained with nicotine. His hair was grey, and shorter at the sides even than his moustache. He was dressed immaculately in light grey, and there was a carnation on his buttonhole; Bill Bristow without his flower would have been a sensation at Scotland Yard.

  He was a capable, shrewd and efficient officer, given more to puzzling out abstruse and complicated problems than the lightning-like raids of the Baron. But he had been assigned the Baron’s case some eight months before, had learned the identity of the Baron without being able to prove it. He had sworn that he would catch Mannering one day. The only thing he could not persuade himself to do was to dislike Mannering.

  Yet it was a grim-faced Bristow who eyed Mannering and his dressing-gown.

  ‘Hallo, Bill,’ said Mannering, and there was a hit in his voice. ‘You’re up early. Come in.’

  ‘I’m not so early as some people,’ Bristow growled.

  ‘Postmen and milkmen beat you to it, do they?’

  Mannering stepped to the table and poured a cup of coffee for Bristow, who accepted it with a brusque ‘Thanks!’

  ‘You won’t mind if I carry on with breakfast?’ murmured the Baron.

  ‘No,’ grunted Bristow, and Mannering could imagine what was going through his mind.

  He had heard of the Teevens burglary, of course, jumped to the conclusion that Mannering had committed it, hurried to Bloom Street determined to get some results – and had suddenly felt at a loss. Bristow always felt like that whenever he tried to trap the Baron. It was a feeling that he detested.

  That morning he had hoped to find Mannering in bed, which would be evidence of a negative kind of a very late night. He found him up and cheerful, eyes clear and bright, and in the middle of breakfast. He found him outwardly unperturbed—would the day never come again when Mannering would be off his guard?—and apparently feeling happy.

  ‘You’re not exactly at your best, Bill,’ Mannering chided as he finished his meal and set his plate on one side. ‘What’s the trouble?’

  ‘You know what the trouble is,’ growled Bristow.

  The Yard man was not only suffering from the inferiority complex which so often overcame him when he was with Mannering; there was an additional cause for ill-temper that morning – he had toothache. Normally he was almost a match for Mannering in repartee, and possessed a lively sense of humour, but neither was in evidence just then.

  The relationship between Mannering and Bill Bristow had started when Mannering had first begun to take cracksmanship seriously twelve months before. Among the other things that had happened during the ensuing period was a simple one: Mannering had contrived to save Bristow’s life.

  Bristow was often too keenly aware of it.

  Mannering, with an appreciation of the detective’s psychology, was convinced that if the time came when Bristow was able to repeat the arrest formula, he would hate his job. There were occasions, of course, when the Superintendent would swear vengeance on the Baron, when his efforts to catch him would reach a positive crescendo; but if the end did come, Bristow would not relish it much.

  Bristow was looking very glum that morning and Mannering’s heart began to thump uncomfortably. A little vein in his forehead throbbed during moments of stress, he could feel it moving now.

  Bristow actually knew something. It was a peculiar fact which Mannering had come to recognise months before, that he was often more afraid when he was safely away from the scene of a crime, than when on the spot itself. He had time to wonder what was going to happen next, time to ponder over Bristow’s manner, time to imagine a dozen ways in which it would have been possible for Bristow to learn conclusively that Mannering had been in Hampshire on the previous night, and near Gus Teevens’s house.

  Among other sources of information was the girl.

  Mannering did not like to suspect that Philippa Grey had given anything away. He was convinced that she would not have spoken of her own free will, but if Rombell had been approached by the police, and if Bristow had been to see Philippa at the Elan and trapped her with questions, anything could happen.

  Had that happened?

  Mannering was eyeing Bristow contemplatively, it seemed, and toying with a spoon. He looked lazy, but in the morning so many men looked lazy. He was searching the detective’s face for some clue to what was going on in his mind.

  And then Bristow laughed.

  Mannering’s vein stopped beating.

  ‘That’s better, Bill!’

  ‘Mannering,’ said Bristow, ‘you were at Teevens’s place last night, weren’t you?’

  Mannering stopped smiling to frown.

  ‘Teevens? Which Teevens?’

  ‘It’s no use bluffing,’ Bristow said. ‘You were there. The gas-pistol gives you away every time, so does the blue mask. Why not admit it?’

  ‘Said the spider to the fly,’ murmured Mannering. ‘Bill, I’ve never seen a gas-pistol in my life, and as for a blue mask – but what happened at Teevens’s house? He’s a big enough rogue to have plenty of bodyguards, isn’t he?’

  ‘He had plenty of guards,’ said Bristow. There was tensing about the muscles of his mouth which Mannering noticed even if Bristow appeared to speak casually. ‘The night-watchman saw you. I knew your time would come, and . . .’

  ‘My dear Bill!’ exclaimed John Mannering. ‘What are you talking about?’

  Bristow dre
w a deep breath; his bluff that morning had been clumsy, and he knew it. He was telling himself that it was hardly worth going on, but he was a conscientious officer.

  ‘I’m going to search the flat,’ he announced.

  Mannering chuckled.

  ‘Search on, William.’

  ‘I suppose that means that you’ve managed to get rid of the loot,’ said Bristow sourly. ‘One day you’ll be too late.’

  ‘Well, well,’ murmured Mannering, and his hazel eyes were sparkling, his lean face more devil-may-care than ever. ‘This is a free country, and we can also have free thought. I’m not even going to make you get a search warrant, which I certainly should do. Help yourself – I’m going to dress.’

  He waved to the Yard man and went into his bedroom. The only possible thing Bristow could find was the shot-torn coat, and no one could be sure the coat had been torn with gunshot; probably no one would notice it had been torn.

  The blue mask and the gas-pistol, with the small set of tools, was at Waterloo station in an attaché case left under the name of Mayer – Mannering always used aliases with his own initials, to make sure that a Mr. Smith did not leave a case with initials belonging to Mr. Brown; with such small things was the road to the Old Bailey strewn – and an army of police could have discovered nothing incriminating at the flat.

  Mannering was immaculate in pale grey when Bristow, who had actually looked through the kitchen, bathroom and living-room, although without much hope, knocked on the bedroom door. His search of the bedroom was cursory in the extreme.

  ‘Satisfied?’ Mannering offered cigarettes.

  ‘Thanks,’ said Bristow. ‘I’m satisfied you haven’t got the stuff here. Mannering . . .’

  The policeman was about to be serious, and Mannering waited with due deference.

  ‘I’ve said this often before, and I’ll say it again,’ Bristow went on. ‘You’ve done very well in the past eight months, and you’ve amassed money. Why don’t you give up while you’re safe? I want to see you behind bars, but . . .’

  ‘If the Baron stopped operating, you wouldn’t worry about his past. Is that what you’re saying?’ asked Mannering.

  ‘You’re the Baron, and I know it.’

  ‘And I’ve never admitted it, because it isn’t true,’ Mannering said blandly.

  ‘The day will come when you’ll admit it. To go to Teevens’s place last night was madness. You were lucky to get away. The watchman’s badly hurt and still unconscious . . .’

  Bristow paused for a fraction of a second, trying to get a reaction, but Mannering knew Bill Bristow.

  ‘Poor chap,’ he said.

  ‘Teevens is swearing he’ll have his own back,’ the Yard man went on, ‘and Teevens keeps that kind of promise. I’m warning you. You’ve gone too far already. Unless you stop right away you won’t stay free for another month.’

  ‘If I were the Baron I could appreciate that sentiment,’ murmured Mannering. ‘What did Teevens lose?’

  ‘The main item was a valuable diamond necklace.’

  ‘Do you know whose necklace?’

  ‘Teevens’s, of course.’

  ‘Did you hear how he came by it, Bill?’

  Bill Bristow regarded Mannering thoughtfully, his eyes screwed up at the corners as smoke coiled upward from his cigarette. He could never really make Mannering out. He knew that the Baron had managed to get at least a hundred thousand pounds one way and the other, that Mannering’s bank balance was very healthy, and that there was no need for him to steal. He did not know that Mannering had been seriously thinking of retiring, and that the Purnall necklace had brought him into action.

  ‘No,’ said Bristow at last. ‘How did he come by it?’

  ‘I’ll tell it to you. It wouldn’t surprise me if the Baron had heard it first. Alice Purnall was a comparatively rich woman five years ago. Her affairs were handled by Gus Teevens and a particularly nauseous solicitor by name Lobjoit. You know Matthew Lobjoit?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘You shouldn’t allow him to practise,’ murmured Mannering. ‘Teevens and Lobjoit run a crooked game, Bill, even if they’re experts at keeping on the right side of the law. One way and another they sunk Alice Purnall’s money and shares in phoney securities. Teevens kept the records. Teevens showed “proof” that she had lost money. She is an unsuspecting soul, and Teevens persuaded her to take a certain course of action, which we needn’t go into now. He advised her to hold on to certain shares, no matter how low they fell on the market.’

  Bristow shifted from one foot to the other. This was the kind of story he could believe of Teevens, yet he stood no more chance of proving it than he did of catching the Baron.

  Mannering went on:

  ‘Alice Purnall actually wrote and told him to hold them – he’d asked for confirmation of verbal instructions. He held them. He held them so long that Mrs. Purnall actually lost more money than she possessed. Teevens showed proof again, for he’s very clever with accounts. He said that he had put up his own money in an effort to save hers. You listening, Bill?’

  ‘Where’d you hear this story?’ demanded Bristow.

  ‘I didn’t hear it – I pieced it together,’ Mannering answered. ‘If I could have found proof I’d have sent it to you. But it all happened. As a result Mrs. Purnall found herself with only a diamond necklace to pay her debts. Teevens accepted the necklace in lieu of payment.’

  ‘Hmm-mm,’ remarked Bill Bristow, rubbing his chin.

  ‘Whose necklace was it?’ asked the Baron gently.

  Detective-Superintendent Bristow left Mannering’s flat somewhat happier than when he had entered it. He was sure that the Baron had stolen the necklace; he believed the story about Teevens, and he was relieved at the reason the Baron had for re-entering the field of crime.

  Mannering undressed, went to bed, and slept till one o’clock; then he dressed again and went out. The burglary at Teevens’s place was widely reported in the Press, for Teevens was a figure in the City, and was on the board of the Evening Star. Mannering read the usual statement that the police had important clues, and read with greater interest a statement made by Gus Teevens to the Evening Star’s representative:

  ‘I have always fought vigorously against these thieves,’ said Mr. Augustus Teevens, ‘and I am strengthened in this resolve by my own loss. They are a pernicious gang, and they must be put behind bars. The man who burgled my house last night is known as the Baron. The fact that he possesses a certain glamour with which the gullible public has seen fit to surround him, makes no difference. I shall make every effort to apprehend the Baron, in co-operation with the police. A man who can act with such violence and show such lack of scruple is a menace to society. I . . .’

  ‘So that’s what you believe, is it?’ mused John Mannering; and then he began to think very fast.

  He knew that Teevens had started on Mrs. Purnall, and if the list he had found on the previous night was a true guide he was going to follow with a certain Mr. Didcotte. After that, Lord Fauntley would have his turn.

  Mannering had no idea who Didcotte was, but it must not be long before he found out. As for Fauntley . . .

  The angle of the situation worried him, and he decided to visit his lordship that afternoon.

  Hugo Lord Fauntley was a small, grey, wispy-looking man with a flair for finance who had profited a great deal from the war without being one of the worst profiteers. Although Mannering had not liked him particularly when they had first met, he had since developed an affection for the little man who behind a pompous and arrogant exterior was really the same Hugo Fauntley who had been chief clerk to a lesser-known bookmaker twenty-five years before.

  Fauntley’s genius for making money had its limitations, for, like many people, he had suffered badly in the crises in the late fifties, and then again after the Korean
War. If he was still wealthy he was by no means as strong financially as he had been when Mannering had first known him. One or two bad deals had added several hundred thousands of pounds to the loss. Mannering knew Lord Fauntley to be a very troubled man.

  Most men with Fauntley’s present reputed fortune would have considered themselves well off, but Mannering, who knew his love of money for power’s sake, could understand why Fauntley considered himself comparatively poor.

  He knew also that Fauntley had done a great deal of business lately with Gus Teevens, and he knew that Fauntley had one of the most valuable collections of precious stones in the world.

  It was an interesting coincidence.

  Mannering, immaculate in Savile Row perfection, something over six feet tall, reputed by many to be the most handsome man in London, walked thoughtfully through the crowded London streets, rubbing shoulders with people who viewed the Baron with horror or admiration, according to their outlook on the sanctity of the property of the rich. It amused him occasionally to wonder what these people would say if he told them the truth. Probably their first retort would be that he was lying.

  He was woolgathering again.

  Here was a direct threat from Teevens, clever and crooked, to Fauntley, clever and honest according to his light, and it had to be met.

  He wished Lorna Fauntley was in London.

  There was just one reason why she was away, and a similar reason why she was not Mrs. John Mannering. She was married. Fauntley did not dream of it, Lady Fauntley did not know. No one but Lorna and her husband knew of her marriage – and John Mannering. The man’s name was Rennigan; for his silence he demanded a price that was sometimes more than Lorna could meet, but she refused to let the truth come to light, less because she was afraid for her own reputation than because of the shock the news would bring to her parents.

  Mannering knew her reasons and appreciated them, perhaps because few women besides Lorna could be capable of such resolution. In short, she was married to a man and fighting desperately to find money to pay him to keep her secret. Mannering knew that; and she knew that Mannering was the Baron.