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  Mannering glanced at the list again, seeing several names that astonished him. The Duchess of Plazan headed the list, and Mannering had a mental image of the tall, stately woman, and Plazan himself, cold, hard, a stickler for propriety in every way. The Dowager Countess of Resmond was listed too.

  The Baron still sat at Salmonson’s desk, within thirty feet of Hatton Garden, his mind running round this development and without a thought of his own position.

  Salmonson’s business was dirtier even than Granette’s, who was at least working against someone who had a reasonable chance of defending himself. The extent of the racket was startling, for the Duchess of Plazan’s reputation was beyond reproach. Mannering wondered how much Salmonson was making out of this careful method of blackmailing. Judging from the figures, and the value of the stones in front of Mannering, he would laugh at thousands and talk mostly in tens of thousands.

  The decision came to Mannering as he stood up, and he was smiling to himself again. He was surprised how often he laughed aloud, or smiled or frowned when he was working. It was a way of easing the inevitable loneliness of the night expeditions.

  He was able to match up the gems with the names, and found that there were three over, apparently unconnected with the blackmailing, besides the Desire Diamond. He dropped them all into his pockets without troubling to keep them separate, for the descriptions were on the list and he would have no difficulty in linking them again – and returning them to their owners.

  The three loose stones were worth ten or eleven thousand pounds, and they would make another profitable night’s work. There was a joy in simply robbing Mr. William Salmonson, almost as great as the joy of defeating his cunningly contrived scheme of protection.

  It was nearly half past eight when the Baron glanced at his watch. It was time to get out of the building before the policeman’s return.

  There was no need to tidy up, and all he had to do now was to get out of the shop without being seen. He would open the street door and pull it to with a bang. It would seem natural enough if he were seen, although he wanted to get away unobserved. That would prevent the police from finding the exact time of the burglary.

  He left the office without another glance at the vault, walked quickly along the passage, stuffing the envelope and the list of names into his pocket. He smiled at the now useless iron-grilled gate, opened the shop door, and reached that leading to the street. His hand was actually on the handle and he was pulling it open when he heard the key grating in the lock. Someone was there!

  Alarm flooded Mannering’s mind again for a second that seemed an age. He had been prepared for emergency outside, but to find the door opening while he was standing there was almost too much. He hesitated for a split second while the key was pushed into the lock; and then he heard an oath from outside.

  Whoever was there had realised the lock had been forced. Mannering had no time to back away, but just time to slip the handkerchief from his neck to his chin and nose. Then the door opened, and Salmonson stood, like a graven image on the threshold, staring at him.

  There was another man, too.

  Mannering took them both in at a glance, seeing the stupefaction in Salmonson’s blunt features and in the eyes of his thick-set, burly-looking companion. Then Salmonson’s lips opened in a gasp, and the other swore while his right hand was clenched and ready for trouble.

  All three of them were in full view of the street.

  Chapter Eight

  From The Baron

  Thoughts flashed through the Baron’s mind in a confused medley, while the man behind Salmonson still swore viciously, and Salmonson’s right hand moved quickly towards his pocket. Never in his life had the Baron been so glad of his mask. As it was his voice came from his stomach.

  “I shouldn’t pull a gun, I’ve got one. Be quiet, or I’ll use it!”

  The gas-pistol was in the Baron’s hand as the words came, Salmonson saw it first, and his right arm stopped moving, his expression of anger changed to fear. The Baron backed two paces along the hall, speaking as he moved.

  “Come in, and back into the shop. Half a word and I’ll shoot you both.”

  His voice was harsher than usual, and there was a note of savagery in it that would have scared bigger men than William Salmonson. The other was still muttering under his breath, but under the persuasion of the gun both of them obeyed the Baron.

  Footsteps, slow and heavy, were sounding along the pavement.

  “Pull that door to,” ordered the Baron, and the burly man obeyed. Salmonson’s eyes were narrowed, his lips were pressed tightly together. Mannering saw all the danger signs and knew the man would make his effort very soon. He followed them into the shop, relieved beyond measure when the door was shut.

  It was dark, but he could make out the men clearly enough. He moved towards the light switch, Salmonson’s grunt came very clearly, and he lashed at Mannering’s knee. Mannering stepped back swiftly. The kick carried Salmonson off his balance and Mannering went forward and crashed his fist into the burly one’s face – for he was the bigger threat. The man staggered back against a show case, and glass boomed and rattled. In the glare of the light Salmonson staggered forward, with his hands scraping the floor. Mannering waited: in the bright light his hazel eyes seemed ablaze with fury.

  “I’ll teach yer not to try them tricks, yer bloody fools! What’s yer name?”

  He glared at Salmonson, but the fight had gone out of the man when he had hit the floor, and his lips were quivering.

  “I—I’m Salmonson.”

  “So you’re the boss of the outfit.” He was making as sure as he could that Salmonson did not suspect that he was Mannering, and the harsh voice and the uncouth words rang truly enough. “Got a bit’ve a shock I reckon. You! Keep still!”

  His gun swivelled round towards the burly man, who was probably in the late twenties, thick-set, ugly, and judging from his cauliflower ears, a boxer. Not a man to meet at close quarters, and the gas-pistol might be needed. Mannering preferred not to use it, for without it the only evidence of the Baron in the raid would be the blue mask, and Granette had already staked a claim to that.

  “Be careful, Britten, be careful!” Salmonson’s words came quickly, high-pitched and agonised. The Baron’s eyes were dancing now, for the boxer raised his hands reluctantly towards the ceiling. He would have put up a fight, but Salmonson’s order stopped him.

  “You’re a wise guy,” grunted the Baron. “Pleased to know it, Mister Salmonson! Only you ain’t so wise as some think. Left a nice little list o’ names and addresses for me, didn’t yer?”

  He saw Salmonson’s eyes widen, saw the merchant sway on his feet.

  “No, no! I don’t know what—”

  “Bluffing don’t suit you,” said the Baron arbitrarily, “you was born to tell the truth.” He laughed roughly at his own joke, but all the time he was desperately anxious to get away as soon as he had made sure there would be no immediate pursuit. More, he wanted to put the fear of death into William Salmonson. “Why, you louse, blackmailing women is about all you can manage. Understand. Blackmailin’, I said! Know the stretch for that? A cove got ten years the other day for trying to squeeze five hundred, and I reckon you’ve touched for a cool hundred thousand. Take you all your life to work that off,” added the Baron, suddenly revelling in Salmonson’s fear and the part he was playing.

  Britten spoke for the first time.

  “Well, wot are yer going to do about it?”

  “Were you in this?” flashed the Baron.

  “Supposin’ I was?”

  Before Britten was prepared, the Baron’s left fist caught him on the side of the jaw, sending him staggering. The Baron brought the butt of his pistol behind Britten’s ear, and the boxer grunted, his eyes rolling. Mannering steadied him to the floor, and swung round on Salmonson.

  He had never seen fear so naked in a man’s eyes. Salmonson was staring at him, his eyes like saucers, his lips open and his wide-spaced teeth sho
wing. His face was yellow-tinged, his knees were shaking as much as his hands.

  The Baron stood over him, menacing, dangerous.

  “You’ll be lucky if I let you out alive,” he snarled. “I’ve got that list and I’ve got the sparklers. I know what to do wiv’ ’em, and they aren’t safe with you. Try that game again and I’ll get you. Understand?”

  Salmonson cowered backwards.

  “Ye–es, yes, I—”

  “Well, just take care you don’t forget.” Mannering stretched his left hand out, catching Salmonson’s shoulder. He spun the man round, dropped his gas-pistol into his pocket, and chopped a rabbit-punch to Salmonson’s neck. Salmonson hardly grunted, and he was unconscious when Mannering laid him on the floor.

  Mannering was anxious now. The policeman would be due back in less than five minutes and he might be early. Salmonson and Britten were safe enough for the time being, and Mannering turned back to the street door.

  It was very dark in the street, only a few lamps breaking the gloom, but there was no sound of approaching footsteps. Mannering stepped boldly to the pavement, pulled the door to behind him and locked it with the key Salmonson had left behind. He slipped the key into his pocket and turned left, away from Liber Street. He had lost all his tools, but there was plenty in his pockets to buy a new set. His rubber-tipped gloves would prevent fingerprints being useful to the police.

  He walked quickly as far as Trafalgar Square, passing a hundred people on the way, every one of whom knew of the Baron yet did not dream they had seen him. He hired a cab at Waterloo knowing it was safe enough, and felt the heap of jewels in his pocket with intense satisfaction. At the terminus he booked for Barnes Common, and was lucky to find a train due to start. When he sank in the corner of a first-class carriage he felt that he could relax.

  The second de Castilla jewel was his: now for the third.

  At Clapham Junction, Mannering dropped the key out of the window. Then he settled down to working out a plan of campaign, for he saw that he had plenty to do. Salmonson’s blackmail racket had proved a complication that he had hardly wanted, for there was more than enough to do with the five Castilla jewels.

  But he had settled his plan when he reached Barnes Common Station, still in the disguise that had served him so well at Hatton Garden, still stooping a little. He was not a frequent traveller on the line, although he knew the way to the house of Mr. James L. Miller.

  This was a large, terraced house in a road that backed on to the common, and the upper flat was let to a newly-married couple. Mannering, as Mr. James L. Miller, used only the bottom flat. He let himself in with his key, and called for his housekeeper.

  The woman had no reason to be in, and she didn’t answer.

  Mannering went into a small room on the right of the hall, feeling free and reassured now after the earlier evening’s tension. On a desk were several letters addressed to Mr. Miller, some circulars, and the packet he had sent on after visiting Kelworthy.

  He smiled to himself as he washed and then carefully resumed the disguise, altering the lines at his mouth and filling his cheeks with the pads and covering his teeth with the rubber film. Even Lorna would have found it hard to recognise him.

  18 Lanchester Street had been a haven for the past six months. Mannering had once used a house backing on Wimbledon Common, under the name of Mr. Mayle, but Bristow had ferreted him out. The day would probably come when Lanchester Street would be useless, but for the time being it was safe.

  His housekeeper, a prim-faced, unbending woman of fifty-odd, believed that he was a travelling representative. Mannering found her aloof, almost unfriendly, as though she suspected the worst from young middle-aged bachelors, but she was houseproud, civil and polite, and she could grill steaks to perfection.

  The front door opened half an hour after he had arrived, and he went to the door of his study. Mrs. Hawkes, dressed in faded black, gave him a tight-lipped smile of welcome, her nearest approach to frivolity.

  “Good evening, Mr. Miller. I didn’t expect you.”

  “That’s all right,” said Mannering. “I didn’t expect myself. I’ll only be staying for a few hours, I needed the post.” He waved to the desk, and smiled. “If you can find me a snack meal in an hour, I’d be glad.”

  “Very good, sir.” She never departed from the formula.

  Mannering put her out of his mind as he sat at his desk and emptied his pocket of the gems. They sparkled like living fire beneath the single electric lamp, and he felt the magic of their beauty – fascinating magic. But he had to resist it. He separated the three stones that Salmonson had come by honestly as far as he knew, and the Delawney sapphires, put these in a box and wrapped it up carefully in brown paper. He addressed it in block lettering to Mr. Richard Leverson, at 17 Wine Street, Aldgate, and then he turned his attention to the list of names and addresses, and the stones that Salmonson had taken from twenty-one foolish women. He took just under the hour to finish his task, and he was ready for the steak that Mrs. Hawkes must have had in the deep freeze.

  The Duchess of Plazan had never been known to fail in any of the thousand and one obligations that her rank and position gave her. She was a magnificent-looking woman, retaining more than a hint of the beauty of her youth. Her Portland Square house ran without the slightest hitch, despite the testy, choleric nature of her husband and the boisterous behaviour of her children and then grandchildren.

  No one could have dreamed that for nearly two years she had been in a state of mental anguish.

  Her oldest daughter was married to a young politician, whose career would have been smashed by the slightest breath of scandal. Charlotte, Duchess of Plazan, had never dreamed of the complications that would arise when she had learned that Mabel had been foolish enough to have an affaire with an attaché of the French Embassy, a gentleman who had left London a year before and was now in Saigon.

  The upshot had been that Salmonson had taken the Duchess’s necklace, the string which had been in the family of Plazan for three hundred years, and supplied a paste replica for use on great occasions. For keeping his knowledge secret, Salmonson had accepted a thousand pounds a year, making a firm offer for the return of the necklace on payment of twenty thousand pounds. Thirty years before the figures would not have worried Charlotte. Now it was difficult enough to keep the Huntingdon estate as well as the Portland Square house, and every extra hundred pounds was a strain on the exchequer.

  If her husband learned of the affair, she knew that he would insist on charging Salmonson. That might ruin the jewel merchant, but it would also ruin Mabel and the promising career of Captain Ronald Aiding. Between them they had managed to pay Salmonson his thousand a year. The third payment was due in a few days and the Duchess was still unable to find the money. Mabel had gone to Cannes, with Ronald – nothing had been said that might arouse suspicions.

  On the morning following the Baron’s visit to Salmonson’s office, the Duchess felt really unwell, and broke her rule of not breakfasting in bed. The post was brought up to her with the morning papers. She glanced at the headlines casually, and saw another mention of the Baron.

  And then, just beneath it, the name Salmonson.

  The maid who saw her propped against her pillows and reading the report of the Baron’s latest robbery, had never seen her so interested in the papers. She heard the Duchess’s sudden intake of breath, saw the pallor that spread slowly over her cheeks.

  “Are you all right, your Grace?”

  “Yes, yes, get along, Stevens! Get along!”

  It was some time before Charlotte, Duchess of Plazan, was able to think of the post after Stevens had reluctantly left the room. She opened several letters, glanced at them listlessly and threw them aside. Then she saw the packet addressed in block lettering and marked heavily: ‘Private, please.’

  She opened it, glancing at the Barnes postmark, thought again of the Baron’s raid and wondered fearfully whether the Plazan necklace had been among his loot. Then the lid
came off, with the cotton-wool, and she saw the necklace sparkling up at her, aflame in the morning sun. She could hardly breathe. She took it in fingers that trembled, and the glittering stones rested on her slender white hands. Then she saw the small label tied to the necklace.

  With the compliments of the Baron.

  Within an hour of the Duchess of Plazan’s receipt of the necklace, twenty other women in the Mayfair or St. John’s Wood neighbourhood received packages, and felt the same flood of relief.

  At his Clarges Street flat, John Mannering had come from the Elan Hotel, where he had spent the night. He was preparing for the routine visit from Bristow, and feeling that if the Duchess could be foreman of a jury comprising the other twenty, he would cheerfully face any charge at the Old Bailey.

  He was preparing not only for Bristow, but for a visit to Paris. There was still time to beat Granette to Panneraude’s house, to get the Crown of Castile.

  Chapter Nine

  Mannering Bluffs

  As far as Mannering had been able to judge, no one from Scotland Yard had been watching the Elan, although he had expected a call. The news of the robbery in Hatton Garden should have been out within an hour of the Baron’s leave-taking from Salmonson, for neither of the men had been badly hurt.

  He knew that he had no alibi, but none of the stones was in his possession, and he had left nothing in the way of a clue for Bristow to attribute the robbery to him. The success of his raid had increased his confidence, and he felt in his bones that nothing would go wrong.

  About that time there was a change in the Baron that he hardly realised himself. He became bolder with the police and with others, although he left nothing to chance, and he thought and acted as though there was a special benevolence looking after him. It was the confidence that had started six months before, when he had helped Lord Fauntley to turn the tables on that fat rogue, Gus Teevens. That was when the Baron had first stopped working solely for himself, and began thinking as much, if not more, of others.