Shadow The Baron Read online

  But he couldn’t assume that this was the only hiding place.

  There might be others in the warehouse, or in one of the rooms; possibly in the flat across the landing.

  He heard a clock strike twelve.

  He moved into the hall. There was silence, everywhere. He walked across to the front door, paused to listen, heard nothing, and moved the chair aside. As he did so, he heard a creak. He stared tensely towards the door. It was open an inch, but he couldn’t see the landing or the staircase, only a blank wall.

  There was a shadow on the wall. It was not the shape of a man’s head, but the shape of a policeman’s helmet.

  Another creaking sound came, but the shadow remained stationary; so someone else was there.

  He put the chair back carefully, and then moved silently across the room to the kitchen. He heard a sound, as if the door had been pushed against the chair. He could imagine the man outside trying to get an arm through so as to push the chair to one side. He stepped out into the cold night. Two or three lights showed at windows, and he could see the outline of the fire escape. It was impossible to go down without making some sound on the iron rungs.

  He leaned forward, and held the rail and a faint clang came up to him.

  He drew back, close against the wall, and waited. It was impossible to be sure how many men were on the fire escape. There were no sounds from inside the flat; the police were probably still trying to shift the chair without giving themselves away. He didn’t move. He didn’t ask himself what had brought the police. He felt his nerves quivering. He was sandwiched between two groups, and there would almost certainly be others, waiting below.

  He saw the shape of a head appear on the landing then the head and shoulders of another. Pressed against the wall, he merged against the darkness. He held his breath as a man stepped into the kitchen. If the light were put on he would be seen.

  The second man followed him; both were now inside the kitchen. Mannering heard them groping and saw the eerie beam of a torch light moving about. He stepped forward, groped for the first step, and started to go down. A policeman would probably be on guard, at the foot; he dare not make too much noise or lose too much time.

  He reached the first landing, without raising an alarm. At the second, he could see the pale colour of the concrete in the back yard, and the dark shape of a policeman standing on it; the helmet was unmistakable. It was hard to believe that the man had neither seen or heard him. He went down the next few steps cautiously – and then the guard exclaimed: “Here!”

  Mannering said mildly: “Hallo.”

  The shadowy shape moved and Mannering jumped forward. The first shrill note of a whistle sounded. Next moment Mannering was on the man, smashing right and left at his stomach and face. The constable reeled back, and went sprawling. Mannering turned towards the dim shape of the wall; there was a lighter patch, where a door was open. He stepped through as the whistle shrilled out in earnest. He raced towards a street to which a narrow alley led. Another blast from the whistle cut the air; lights went up in several windows.

  He heard pounding footsteps in close pursuit, and others coming towards him. Then the nearer man swung round the corner. Mannering shot out a foot and tripped him up, jumped past, and found himself near the steps which led to the lower level. The Buick was parked in the other direction. The headlights of two cars flared suddenly, and he was caught in a tunnel of light.

  “There he is!” a man bellowed.

  Mannering raced to the steps and leapt down, making for Villiers Street and the Underground Station. As unobtrusively as he could, he merged with several hurrying people, trying to breathe evenly, and behave as the average passenger obsessed with time. He forced himself to go at walking pace, reached the station and took a sixpenny ticket from the automatic machines. He was half way down the steps leading to the track before he heard a police whistle, so loud that he knew the police were in the station. A train came rumbling in. He reached the platform as it stopped, and stepped inside, then sat facing the platform. He saw two policemen hurrying down the steps as the train moved out, but the automatic closing doors were jammed tightly before they arrived.

  They would be at the next station, Westminster, before the police could get there. He was at the doors before the train stopped, slipped out quickly, and hurried up to street level. He came out facing Big Ben, turned right, and reached the corner of Whitehall as a bus loomed up. He sprang onto the platform, clattered upstairs, and then looked out of the window. He could see the people on the pavement, including two constables, but no one appeared to be in a hurry. He went as far as Victoria, changed buses, and booked to Marble Arch. By that time he felt safe, although the sight of a constable in uniform set his heart beating faster. For the first time, he had time to think; and he didn’t want to think, that call had been too close. He went into the Cumberland Hotel, went to the main cloakroom, and shut himself into a W.C. He worked at his greasepaint with the rag and the little bottle of spirit. There was no mirror, he had to manage. He took the rubber off his teeth and the pads out of his cheeks, and then he went out, took off his coat, and began to wash. Two other men were present, and neither noticed him.

  The attendant came in, whistling off key.

  Mannering washed vigorously, and then examined himself in the mirror. There were traces of the grease paint, but not sufficient to give him away. Even an accurate description wouldn’t help the police, but he’d feel happier when he was back at Chelsea, and out of these clothes.

  He took a taxi to Victoria, and then changed on to a bus; he couldn’t cover his traces too thoroughly. From King’s Road he walked briskly towards River Walk. A cold wind was blowing off the Thames, invigorating and welcome. Now that the crisis was past, he could begin to examine it. Why the police had decided to raid Buckley Street.

  Had they been watching the house, and seen what had happened earlier?

  He didn’t think that was the answer, or they would have acted sooner.

  It was more likely that the shot had been heard, or that a patrol constable had found the door forced, and sent for a raiding party. The cause didn’t greatly matter, and there was little risk of being discovered. No one that night had seen him as he really was, no one would recognise him if they saw him now. Yet he was uneasy.

  As he neared the house, he saw a man in a doorway on the other side of the road.

  It was a favourite point of vantage, for those who thought it worth watching him; Bristow’s men particularly. He fought down a flare of alarm. Although he could be heard, he couldn’t be seen definitely enough to be recognised. He walked past the doorway of his house, towards the Embankment. He stopped at the first corner, and glanced round; there was no sign of the watching man. He waited for a few minutes, and the man didn’t emerge from his hiding place. The sense of acute danger faded. Mannering made his way towards the back of the house. It was an easy climb up to a window of his flat; he’d made it easy, with iron brackets, because in the past he’d often found it useful.

  Hetty, the maid, was probably asleep; in any case, there was no light in her room. He climbed cautiously through the window, but didn’t breathe really freely until he reached his own bedroom.

  Then he began to laugh. It was crazy laughter, and he couldn’t stop himself. As he took off the clothes and hung them up at the back of the wardrobe, he was still chuckling. He went to the bathroom and ran the bath water hot, finishing off with a cold shower. He didn’t go to bed, but switched on the electric fire in the study, and sat looking into it. Every now and again, he chuckled again. After a while, he poured himself out a strong whisky and soda, and it was then that he saw the telephone note propped on an ashtray. He read:

  10 o’clock ................ Mr. Plender, no message.

  10.45 ...................... Mr. Plender, no message.

  11.30 ...................... A man rang up but wouldn’t give his name.

  12.20 ...................... A man rang up, the same one I think, and wouldn
’t give his name.

  He took a deep drink, and carried glass and slip of paper to the chair. He frowned as he read it again. Who was the mysterious caller? And why had Toby tried to get him twice on the same evening? There was probably a simple explanation of Toby Plender’s call, there was no reason why he shouldn’t try again if he were unlucky the first time; but who had the anonymous caller been?

  He began to build menace into those last two calls. Who would want to speak to him at twenty past twelve?

  There was no telling whether anyone else had called up later, or whether the same man had tried to ring him again. Hetty had probably dropped off to sleep quickly, and she was a heavy sleeper. The telephone bell was some distance from her bedroom.

  He looked at the telephone. There was an extension in the hall, another in the drawing room. He frowned towards it, as if willing it to ring, or to tell him how many times in the past hour and a half, it had been ringing without getting a response.

  He finished his whisky, and put the glass down.

  Then the telephone rang.

  He stood up, slowly, torn between the temptation to let it go on ringing, and the desire to know who was calling him. He glanced at his watch; it was now nearly two fifteen. The ringing went on, persistent and regular. He reached the telephone, and lifted the receiver slowly. He yawned, near the mouthpiece, and spoke in a voice which seemed heavy with sleep.

  “Hallo? Who’s that?”

  “Is that Mr. Mannering?”

  “Yes.” He yawned again. “Who . . .”

  The caller rang off.

  The worst of the mysterious telephone call was that he didn’t understand the reason for it. He stood watching the instrument, as if it would wake to life again; and then turned abruptly to the window. Switching the light off, he pulled the curtains aside, and stared into the street. He could see the doorway where the man had been hiding, but could not see the man. Fighting down a growing lassitude, he continued to stand there, and at last he was rewarded. A car appeared, its headlights pinpointing for less than a second the man who had been watching. The car slowed and stopped, the headlights went out. Everything seemed pitch dark after that, but when the effect of the glare had gone, he saw two men talking. A third joined them; a policeman in uniform.

  There was nothing more to learn, he might as well go to bed. But his lassitude had been blasted away.

  It was obvious that the police had been checking, to find out whether he had been in during the evening and now knew that he hadn’t. The watcher would be able to say that he had not returned by the front door, so the police would know he had returned by the back way; and risked the wall climb.

  They would want to know why.

  He knew that Chief Inspector Gordon was constantly on the alert, hoping to catch him out; that with the activities of the Shadow, there was bound to be a revival of interest in the Baron. Here, in the darkness of the small hours, it was easy to believe that Bristow would misconstrue his reason for refusing to help “catch” the Shadow; that the police were building up a strong case against him; that they knew he had been out tonight; that they knew he had been at Buckley Street, which explained the reason for their raid. The police had hoped to catch him red-handed.

  They’d rung up, at intervals, and knew what time he had been out.

  They would probably let him settle down; thinking that there would be no further scare tonight, and then they would call.

  To have all his wits about him he must stay awake. It would be foolish even to doze. He didn’t feel like smoking or reading; but gradually, too slowly to cause alarm, tiredness crept over him.

  He heard three o’clock strike.

  He couldn’t keep his eyes open.

  He went to sleep.

  10: News

  He heard voices, and one of them was a man’s.

  He woke on the instant, listening intently; a woman was talking. It was Hetty, and she was complaining and excusing herself at the same time. She couldn’t take upon herself to wake Mr. Mannering. She’d already been in with his tea and he hadn’t stirred, she might lose her job if she woke him. Actually she knew she wouldn’t lose it, which meant that she had a strong reason for not wanting him to be disturbed; or that was what he assumed. He pushed the bedclothes back. After the first shock of sudden waking, he felt clear headed. The bedside clock showed that it was a little after nine.

  As he climbed out of bed and put on his dressing gown, he heard the man say “Hetty, I must see him, I tell you.” He recognised the voice as Larraby’s.

  Mannering grinned and relaxed, and opened the door wide. They didn’t notice him when he stepped into the hall. Hetty, big and cumbersome, a country girl thoroughly enjoying a strict sense of duty, was barring Larraby’s path.

  “Hetty, you’re fired,” said Mannering.

  Hetty jumped and turned round, her mouth opening in astonishment.

  “Unless you make me some tea right away,” added Mannering.

  “Oh, I. will, sir. Mr. Larraby shouldn’t have disturbed you, I’m ever so sorry; I did try to make him keep his voice down.” She glared at Larraby with the self-righteousness of a conscientious servant who knew her worth, and was determined that others should know it also.

  “Come in, Josh,” Mannering said. “What’s up?”

  “Is everything all right, sir?”

  “Why shouldn’t it be?”

  “I was nervous,” said Larraby. His habitually serene expression was tinged with anxiety as he took a bundle of newspapers from under his arm. “You haven’t seen these, have you?” He held them out. “I felt that I had to come and tell you what might happen this morning.”

  Mannering didn’t glance at the papers.

  “All right, Josh – but first, what happened last night?”

  “I was there for over an hour, and then a man came up and let them out,” said Josh. “I couldn’t see him clearly, but it was a young chap. Well dressed, too. They talked for a bit, and then Smith went off in a taxi. The other two stayed at the garage. I was tempted to follow Smith, but even if I’d wanted to I hadn’t another cab. I kept away from Buckley Street – I hope that was right, Mr. Mannering.”

  “More right than you know,” said Mannering.

  He unfolded the top paper. The headline seemed to leap out at him:

  SHADOW STRIKES AGAIN

  £20,000 MAYFAIR HAUL

  The Shadow, notorious jewel thief, struck again in the early hours of the morning, and escaped with £20,000 worth of jewels from the Morley Square home of Sir James Leeson. The theft . . .

  “Are they all the same, Josh?”

  “Very much the same. But there is another thing, sir. I heard a rumour this morning that the police know who the Shadow is, and hope to make an arrest soon. I also heard that there had been a burglary at Buckley Street. I assumed that you went to Buckley Street again, and – Larraby broke off, and gave a little, hesitant smile. “I’m a little confused, but I was very anxious you should be informed about the rumour that the police have a line on the man at last.”

  “Very sensible of you,” Mannering said. “Have you had breakfast, Josh?”

  “Well . . .”

  “Go and make peace with Hetty over bacon and eggs,” Mannering said. “Then slip out, and stay away until I send for you. Have you decided where to stay yet?”

  “At the Grayville – a small place in Dover Street, sir. I know the management and can have a room with a telephone.”

  Alone again, Mannering drank hot tea and smoked a cigarette, keeping an ear cocked for the front door bell. It didn’t ring. He shaved and bathed, and had breakfast, and it was half past ten before he had finished. By then, Larraby had gone.

  The telephone bell rang, suddenly.

  Mannering lifted the receiver warily. “John Mannering speaking.”

  “Hold on, please, I’ve a call from Salisbury for you.”

  Salisbury meant Lorna. He leaned back, beaming.

  “Darling.” Lorna’s voice
was faint

  “I’ve been waiting for the past hour for this,” said Mannering, with reproach that became genuine the moment he had voiced it.

  “Darling, are you all right?”

  “Of course I’m all right.”

  “Why aren’t you at the shop?”

  “I woke up too late.”

  “John, have you seen the newspapers?”

  “I have, indeed.”

  “John, were you out late last night?”

  “Not so late apparently as the Shadow.”

  There was a pause, and then Lorna said in a more definite voice: “I wish I knew whether to believe you or not.”

  “It’s not worth the effort, my dear, believe me in that. How’s your mother?”

  “Not too good,” Lorna said, “I can’t leave her, otherwise, of course, I’d be in London with you. I don’t trust you on your own. John, be careful. Don’t take any risks.”

  “I’m growing older and wiser,” Mannering said.

  “Older, certainly. Telephone me sometime tonight.”

  “I will,” promised Mannering. “And if you think I ought to come to Salisbury . . .”

  “I would like you to, though I can’t pretend it’s a matter of life and death,” Lorna said. “Just be careful.”

  She rang off, abruptly. Mannering replaced the receiver, seeing his wife in his mind’s eye. He sat back for ten minutes, with the same thoughtful expression on his face, then picked up the newspapers, and read them thoroughly for the first time. He scanned them for the slightest detail that might help, and then threw them aside. He felt restless, anxious to know what had transpired at Buckley Street, in one way glad that the desk safe had been empty. If the police had found a haul there, Smith and the girl would by now be lodged at the police station. The papers said nothing about an arrest.