Love for the Baron Read online

  “You’ll be telling me next that she is the woman with dark glasses,” he said.

  “As a matter of fact,” Mannering told him calmly, “she is.”

  “You’re fooling.”

  “I am telling you the gospel truth,” Mannering said, and smiled more naturally into Bristow’s face, seeing stupefaction chase every other expression away. For a few seconds they remained in silence, Mannering leaning back in his chair and Bristow standing like a statue.

  Then, the telephone bell rang.

  Bristow started: Mannering started. The bell went on ringing, and Mannering put out his hand for it. It might not be her, of course, it might be the accuser again, or even a late caller for the office: it might be Lorna. Come to think of it she probably would call about now, as often as not he would answer a call at this hour with a light: “Hallo, darling!”

  He put the receiver to his ear, and said: “This is John Mannering.”

  “This is Lucille Peek,” Ezra Peek’s widow said in a controlled voice. “I am a little later than I had expected. I am glad you are still in your office.”

  “I was beginning to wonder whether you had regretted your invitation.”

  “You mean you will come?” Excitement flared up in her voice.

  “If you are prepared to meet the conditions – that you tell me everything, including your reason for following me so often.”

  “Yes,” she replied without hesitation. “I have given the matter much thought and I will tell you even that. Will half-past seven be a convenient time for you?”

  “Perfect,” Mannering said.

  “I shall expect you, then, at my apartment which is seventeen – one, seven, you understand – Northcote Square. It’s in St. John’s Wood, not far from the cricket ground. Thank you, Mr. Mannering. It will be a great relief to be able to tell some good person the truth.”

  She rang off, quietly. Mannering put his receiver down slowly, while looking at Bristow, who tossed off the rest of his drink, but shook his head when Mannering stretched out to refill his glass. He dropped into a chair with a faint shrug.

  “So, while you’ve been valuing the Collection, she has been keeping an eye on you.”

  “Apparently. In between destroying lovers and killing husbands, of course.”

  Bristow asked: “How often has she been married?”

  Mannering gave an amused chuckle.

  “According to Harcourt, twice, but he may not know everything about her.” Seriousness took over as he went on in a hard voice: “I surmise that Harcourt was about to divulge some part of it when he collapsed from a heart attack.”

  “A heart attack!” echoed Bristow.

  “So a clerk at his office who answered my second call said.” Mannering stood up and began to pace the room, speaking all the time. “Bill, there is so much that doesn’t add up in this affair; so much which is peculiar and inconsistent that I think we’re going to have our hands full. Before I decide how deeply to get involved I’d like to know as many facts as I can get from independent sources. Can you persuade your friends at the Yard to find out if there was any suspicion of murder when Ezra Peek died? Obviously there was no case, but sometimes the Yard has a feeling about foul play.”

  “Will do,” promised Bristow.

  “And can you get them to find out if Norman Harcourt is subject to heart attacks?” Mannering explained just what had happened while he had been on the telephone, and before Bristow could comment he added: “It was a very convenient time for a heart attack. It could have been faked. It could have been self-induced. It could have been because he was about to betray a client’s confidence and simply found he couldn’t. Or it could have been caused by someone else – by some shock such as a threat from someone nearby, or fear that he was being overheard. He was nervous about that in the beginning, I could only just hear what he said.”

  “I’m sure I can find someone who knows him or knows about him,” answered Bristow. “Is there anything else?”

  “I can’t think of anything at the moment,” Mannering said. “Isn’t that enough to be going on with?”

  After a long pause, Bristow said: “I’m not sure, John.” He drew in a deep breath and spread his hands over his knees, palms downwards, while looking up at Mannering from beneath his brows. “John,” he repeated, and hesitated, while Mannering sensed tension in him, sensed also that he was ill-at-ease, even acutely embarrassed – and that could only be because of what he was about to say: or at least wanted to say. He had only the vaguest idea of what it could be. “John!” Bristow blurted out. “We’ve known each other for a hell of a long time. I’ve known you and Lorna for more years than she would like to remember. Since long before you were married.” He paused, and then went on roughly: “This might be the time to tell me to mind my own bloody business!” He almost glared.

  “Perhaps,” Mannering conceded. “It might also be the time when I would like someone to talk to. Let me quote Lucille Peek’s last sentence on the telephone: ‘It will be a great relief to be able to tell some good person the truth’.”

  Bristow said huskily: “I really believe you mean that. John, this—this woman in dark glasses was a complete stranger to you, wasn’t she?”

  “Absolutely.”

  “Yet the effect she had on you was – well, remarkable.”

  “I know. But don’t ask me to explain it.” Before Bristow could speak again he went on: “Yet perhaps there is something which would help to explain it. There was no reason in the way I felt about the tiara, yet it set me alight. There is no reason for the way I’ve reacted to a woman I hardly saw, a will o’ the wisp, a—a shadow. But almost from the beginning I’ve been – fascinated.”

  “Have you told Lorna?” Bristow asked abruptly.

  “No,” Mannering said. “She saw her the first time we met. She was watching from the flat. ‘Met’ is hardly the word; I swung round and Lucille was just behind me.” Mannering moved to the desk and poured out more whisky for them both; this time, Bristow did not refuse. “I simply don’t know why, but I felt it was something I should keep to myself.”

  Bristow said bluntly: “I think you are quite right.”

  “What?” exclaimed Mannering.

  “I mean it,” Bristow said. “Whatever it is is something so inexplicable that even if you tried to explain to a third party, it’s unlikely you’d get through. Trying to explain to Lorna, who is so emotionally involved could be – well, disastrous. If anything you said struck a wrong note and Lorna reacted badly – well, strongly – it would create a barrier between you that might be very hard to break down. It’s none of my business, of course, but I do feel that whatever happens between you and Lucille Peek you ought to keep entirely to yourself. Do you know that you—?”

  Bristow broke off, drank half of the whisky and soda and lowered his glass but did not go on, until Mannering said quietly: “Don’t hold back now, Bill.”

  “Do you know what an incredibly faithful husband you’ve been? Has it ever occurred to you that staying as rigidly faithful as you have done, can put a strain on your nerves which, in the end, you’ll take out on Lorna? It’s unwise to go on playing the saint unless you entirely feel that way, and I’m damned sure you shouldn’t try. And what’s more”—now Bristow wagged a finger, his doubts about talking gone completely—”this is why the woman in dark glasses intrigued you so much. You weren’t responding to her, you couldn’t because you didn’t know her, but you had to respond to something. You—”

  He broke off, staring into Mannering’s set face, and stood up, saying in a groaning voice: “Now I’ve gone too far. I knew I would, I never was any good at meddling. I—”

  “Stop it, Bill,” said Mannering quietly. “I don’t know how right you are but I do know it wouldn’t surprise me if there was some truth in what you say. Shall we leave it for now – on one condition.”

  “What condition?”

  “That if you want to re-open the subject, you go ahead and do it.”
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  “I don’t think there’s a chance in a thousand of that,” Bristow said. He drew out a handkerchief and wiped his forehead, an indication of the tension he had felt, the strain this confidential talk had been. “I’ve been trying to work myself up to saying something like it for days. John, you don’t have to be rigidly faithful to Lorna to prove your loyalty to her. Did it ever occur to you that if you had a—a friend, a—oh, damnation, a mistress, you might be a bloody sight easier to live with than you are sometimes—”

  He broke off. Mannering laughed. Suddenly they were both laughing. Soon, they locked the office and the shop, without disturbing Larraby who was up in his little flat, and walked along to their cars through a night already giving more than a hint of fog. They were at Mannering’s car when Bristow said casually: “Mind you, I’m not saying this wealthy widow is right for you! Goodnight, John!”

  He walked across the nearly deserted car park to his own car.

  Mannering got into the Allard but did not start off immediately. Bristow’s headlights showed that at ground level the mist was thicker, but this did not seem like a night which would develop into a heavy fog, though there was a raw cold which made him shiver. He switched on the lights and saw that it was later than he thought. There would be just time to dash back to his Hat, change for dinner, and be on his way to Northcote Square by a quarter-past seven. He drove oil’, through streets which were surprisingly empty of traffic, and was near Lord’s Cricket Ground at a few minutes past the quarter. He had luck, too; two policemen were walking towards him, and drew close when he pulled in.

  “Northcote Square, sir – you’re nearly there. Take the second on the left and then the third on the right, and you’ll come to a curved road. That’s it.” The policeman’s hearty: “Pleasure, sir!” followed Mannering’s thanks. In less than five minutes he was in Northcote Square. The houses, he saw, were all in three storeys, only eight or nine of them on the left-hand side.

  The last was Number 17: the number showing clearly on the fanlight above the front door. There were several parking spaces by the kerb which surely meant that each house was divided into only three flats at the most. Along the street were several tall trees with thick trunks.

  A moving shadow appeared to flicker behind one of them.

  Mannering parked his car without difficulty and sat for a moment with the lights on but dipped. He did not get out immediately but waited until his eyes were accustomed to the dimly-lit street, and although he appeared to be looking at the doorway of Number 17 he was actually watching the trees and the evergreen shrubs beyond.

  A man’s figure, dark and shadowy, moved towards the car as Mannering opened the door to get out.

  8

  Attack – On Whom?

  He stood by the side of the car, appearing to be looking at his wristwatch, but in reality on the alert for movement near Number 17. He saw none. He was sure no one had entered the porch, which had white pillars, one of which would have been shadowed. He closed the car door, humming to himself as he went towards the porch; he sounded like a happy man. On one side of the porch was a name board, and the middle of three names read:

  Mrs. Lucille Peek … Flat 2 (Second Floor)

  He pressed a bell-push opposite this and almost immediately a woman’s voice sounded from a loudspeaker which must have been built into the door.

  “Who is that, please?”

  “John Mannering,” Mannering answered clearly.

  “So, you are very punctual. Push the door when you hear the buzzer.” She gave him time to absorb these instructions and as a harsh buzzing sound ripped the air he pushed at the door, still on the alert for sounds and movement – and on the instant, they came.

  He spun round.

  Shooting out his right foot he kicked one man on the knee, went forward and snatched at the other’s outflung arm and pushed it up in a hammerlock as he had done to the man Carter. The man he kicked collapsed, the man he held groaned with pain. He dipped into his pocket for the little gas pistol and used it on both men, who began to gasp and splutter, their eyes streaming. He pressed the bell-push again and immediately the buzzer sounded. This time he opened the door and thrust the first man in, blocked the door open with one foot and pulled at the second man, who was choking hideously. The gas bit at his, Mannering’s, nose and throat; these men who had received a full dose must be in agony.

  At last he had them both inside a wide hall which had only a long narrow table and two upright chairs in it; warm-looking red carpet ran along the hall and up the stairs. On the right of the staircase was another door, obviously the entrance to the ground floor flat. No one came from it, evidently the gasping and groaning of the two men had not raised any alarm.

  There was a sound from above, and Lucille Peek called: “Are you indoors, Mr. Mannering?”

  “Yes,” called Mannering, “but I need some help.”

  “Help?” she echoed, and suddenly she came into sight at the head of this flight of stairs. All he noticed was that she wore a green dress and dark shoes, and in order to see right along the hallway she was bending down. “But who are they?” she demanded. “What has happened?”

  “I don’t know,” replied Mannering. “Either they were waiting to get in when you opened the door for me, and were after you, or someone warned them I was coming and wanted to keep me away. Who knew that I was coming, besides you?”

  She was moving down the stairs now, with the rare grace he had already seen in her. She looked slim and youthful, and horrified. She did not answer him directly but said in a low-pitched voice:

  “You must not send for the police, please. I know these men. They are from my husband’s family, I do not wish to make trouble for them.”

  He could take her at her word. Or he could reject the appeal.

  If he did, then all he had to do was send for the Divisional police and report the attack on him; no policeman would be surprised that he had turned the tables, no one would be surprised at his tiny gas pistol; he often carried valuable jewellery about with him and had to protect himself. If he did that, the police might simply believe it had been an attack on him, and that would be sufficient for a charge. They would be kept in a police cell overnight, and come up for a hearing at the police court next day. But if he let them go, without doing anything himself – and he could not, here – and without sending for the police, then who could he blame but himself for any dangerous act they might carry out in the future?

  Both men were coughing and spluttering and their eyes were still watering but they were quieter than they had been, and appeared to be completely cowed; he doubted if there was any fight left in either of them, and he did not think they could hear what was being said.

  “Never mind what happened before,” he said, very firmly. “Go and telephone for the police, please. I will simply tell them they attacked me as I came in.” When she hesitated he went on: “You and I can decide what to do later – while they’re in a cell.”

  The light fell on her in such a way that it made her eyes look as if they were afire; and it put fire, also, into her hair. She hesitated for a moment and then turned and went upstairs. Mannering studied the men. Both were small, one dark and the other red-haired. The dark one was thin, the fair one over-plump. It was difficult to see exactly what their faces, still scarlet and puffy, would be like normally. He felt an overwhelming temptation to look through their pockets and actually moved forward to make a start, when there was a roar of a car engine outside, a slamming of doors and a thudding of footsteps. He stood up and went to the door, opening it to two policemen; a third man was at the wheel of a car which had a POLICE sign glowing on the roof. The first policeman was the man who had told him how to get to Northcote Square; the others were policemen he had seen at various times on the beat.

  It took fifteen minutes to convince them who he was, what had happened and how he had bested his two assailants, and he thought at one time that they would take his gas pistol, but the older and more stolid
of the two men said: “We’ll check with Division when we’ve got these two back there, Mr. Mannering. You’ll charge them with assault, I take it?”

  “Most certainly I will.”

  “We may have to ask you to come round to the station and make the charge,” the policeman went on, “but we’ll see what we can find out about this pair first. Have you anything valuable in your possession tonight?”

  “No. I was simply making a social call,” Mannering said.

  By then, the two prisoners were in the police car and a second car had arrived as escort. Everything was conducted in the hall and on the porch. The tenants of the downstairs flat were out, only a few people gathered to watch the police drive off with their handcuffed prisoners. For a few moments Mannering was alone on the porch, watching, feeling very strange. So often he had acted on his own; now twice in succession he had simply handed prisoners over to the police, without making any attempt to force information from them; even without going through their pockets, which would have been so easy while they had been blinded and choked by the gas.

  He had set the catch on the front door so that it would not lock. Now he pushed the door open and went inside. The hallway struck pleasantly warm. As he went up the stairs he pictured Lucille Peek as she had pleaded with him to let the men go, remembering how she had accepted his refusal. Within minutes the police car had arrived, so at least she had not tried to waste even a moment.

  What reception would he get, now?

  There was a small landing and a door blocking off what had once been a passage. At the side was the simple numeral ‘2’ – without a name, above a bell-push. He hesitated for only a moment before pressing the bell and almost immediately there was a flurry of footsteps and the door opened.