A Case for the Baron Read online

  “I wonder.”

  “You mean that I must judge for myself,” said O’Malley gaily. “I’ve always believed that the best judgment is one’s own, and mine is very, very good. Would you be surprised to know that I have a theory about you, Mr. Mannering? I didn’t form it until this morning, for it wasn’t until the early hours that I learned of Bristow’s visit to Holly Cottage. My fine theory is that Bristow, through his good man Green, discovered that you would be coming here. And because he is anxious to find out what the wicked Shayne is doing, asked you to assist him. Now, am I wrong?” He beamed.

  “Hadn’t you better rely on your remarkable judgment?”

  “I suppose I cannot expect you to be as frank with me as I am with you,” said O’Malley, forgivingly. “Just now, at all events, you must be feeling your way with me. Well, Mr. Mannering, I have this to say to you: if you are assisting the police, you can count on my eager co-operation. Because of some little differences of opinion in the past, I am not able to go to them myself and give them chapter and verse of what I know about Marcus Shayne. But I will gladly pass it on to you. Think how well that would place you at Scotland Yard!”

  “Wouldn’t it?”

  “It would indeed! But on the other hand, you are a collector of precious stones, and Shayne has some lovely gems. Oh, I know all about his activities; there is little that escapes the eagle eye of O’Malley! I even know that he is an acquaintance of a certain Miss Celia Brent.”

  His eyes danced with delight as he flung that out, and Mannering saw no reason to spoil his pleasure.

  “Is he, by jingo!”

  “Hadn’t you realised it, then? They must be very good actors, the rascally pair. I told you that to show how much I know; we were discussing more important matters. A man who loves jewels as much as you do, might be tempted to buy some from Shayne. ‘Tis only human nature! Because of that, he might feel that he could not advise the police of all he knew about him. Now that would be most unfortunate, because I should have to deal with that man just as I am dealing with Marcus Shayne. You understand me, I’m sure of it. If you were to buy any one of Shayne’s jewels, you would be committing a grievous crime. So if I were to tell the police, they might hold you in less regard than they do now, which no one wants less than O’Malley.”

  “Advance notice of blackmail, Mr. O’Malley?”

  “I dislike the word, but if you wish to use it, well, why not? I’ve made my meaning clear. But I want you to understand that I am talking in the friendliest of spirits, it’s a good turn I want to do you. I shouldn’t like you to burn your fingers in any of Shayne’s hellfires. Won’t you be frank? I know you for a man of your word. If you tell me that you are helping the police, then I’ll work with you, and what a worker O’Malley can be! If you are not able to tell me so, then what can I do but assume that Shayne has you under his evil spell? That would be a great pity. Now what will you do?”

  “I could tan your hide.”

  “Oh, I don’t think you’ll do that. I am putting all my cards on the table. Be a sportsman, show me yours.”

  “As a sportsman, did you arrange that shooting yesterday?”

  O’Malley looked sad.

  “Oh, I admit I was anxious to frighten Shayne, but no more than that was intended. The bullets did not go within a yard of him. My friend is a first-class marksman.”

  “I know where one bullet hit the tree, and how near we were to both of them.”

  “The oaf! The idiot! The imbecile!” cried O’Malley, clenching his fists. “He will be sharply reprimanded. I gave him orders to aim wide. I only wished to heighten Shayne’s fears – as a man of discernment you will have seen that, beneath his charm, he is as frightened as if the Devil his master was hard on his heels.”

  “My discernment can’t be working.”

  “Then the man is a better actor than I realised. I knew he was an accomplished liar. Oh, yes! His wonderful story of assisting the hungry and the sick in Europe – how grandiose and good it sounds! But I am not interested in his fancy lies; you will not have been taken in. I’m only worried in case you want certain jewels badly enough to have dealings with him. Are you a customer of his? Or are you assisting the police?”

  “You’ll still have to rely on your own judgment.”

  “Then I can only assume that you are double-crossing the police, and I am very sorry. Whatever happens, I want you to understand that nothing is personal. I like you. I liked the way you handled the situation yesterday evening, and your chase to Brockenhurst. I was afraid you might send the police to the hotel, so I made myself scarce in a hurry. Now I realise that you can be very discreet. I hope you can also be wise.”

  “The police will be after you soon enough.”

  “Will they, Mr. Mannering? I left a friend of mine at the Brockenhurst hotel, and he told me a curious story. There was a burglary last night, the very night I left. By some strange coincidence the room which I had just vacated was visited by the thief. It was very cleverly done. My friend, who is no novice, examined the lock of the door and told me that only an expert cracksman could have forced it. A real expert, he said, and there aren’t many of them about.”

  Mannering smiled; and, inwardly, froze. But the ice soon melted, there was no need to fear O’Malley, to cloud his mind with anxiety lest the whole world knew he was the Baron. He let the smile grow into a laugh and mystified O’Malley. He stood up, and the Irishman shifted on his stool, his button nose reddening, his eyes wary.

  “Get up, Mr. O’Malley,” said Mannering, and gripped the collar of his coat and then the sleeve, pulled him up and twisted him round so that his coat peeled off. He turned the coat upside down and the contents dropped to the floor; a watch, a knife, pocketbook and wallet, handkerchief, comb – and a jeweller’s eyeglass. He tossed the coat aside and picked up the wallet.

  O’Malley said softly, “You will wish you hadn’t done this.”

  “We’ll see.” The wallet wasn’t much help; there were no papers except pound notes, a railway ticket, and some printed leaflets about the danger from German butterfly bombs and what they looked like.

  “You’ll find nothing to harm me.” The man was waspish, now. “But you’ll regret—”

  Mannering took his arm and swung him round, then lifted him bodily and stood him on a bamboo table by the side of the bed. It rocked; O’Malley thrust out his arms for support against the wall. Mannering backed away, and said: “O’Malley, you’re so full of mistakes it would take me a month to list them all. But here’s a start. You’re a nasty little rat; a liar, a thief, a fool; and you’re in a nasty spot. Why did you go to the Grange last night?”

  Mannering gripped his right ankle, made him stand on one leg. “Why?”

  “Mannering, I’ll fall!”

  “And probably break your neck. Why?”

  “Shayne—Shayne has some jewels, not his, they—”

  “And when you didn’t find them you thought perhaps I’d bought them and sent a man to search my room?”

  “Damn you, so I did!”

  “Don’t try again, O’Malley.”

  “I’ll tell the police you’ve bought smuggled jewels—”

  “You’ll keep away from the police or you’ll find yourself in dock and they’ll give you at least ten years. Who do you work for?”

  “A great man. I’ll never name him!”

  Mannering let him go and backed away. The Irishman’s lips quivered; there was hatred in his eyes.

  Mannering said, “Go and see him, O’Malley. Tell him he’s finished, all washed up. Tell him Shayne’s no longer working on his own and cannot now be frightened. Tell him there’s a special corner hotting up in hell for him, and it’s just about ready. Tell him to keep away from the police, from Shayne, and from me – and make sure that he remembers.”

  He swung round, and went out, slamming the door.

  Mannering went downstairs and left the inn. He walked across to a tiny war memorial, a simple grey stone cross bearing
the names of the hamlet’s dead, watched O’Malley’s window and the front of The Bear Inn. O’Malley hadn’t stayed there just to see him; he was in the hamlet for some other reason.

  A cyclist came in sight along the winding road which led to Brockenhurst, pedalling fast, head down against the wind. He whirred past Mannering, swung into the yard outside the inn, braked hard, and jumped off his machine.

  He hurried inside.

  Mannering crept along, close to the cottage wall, and then to the inn, so as not to be seen from O’Malley’s window, and went in again then upstairs.

  O’Malley’s door was shut, but another, opposite, stood ajar. Mannering looked into a bedroom; the single bed was neatly made and the window was open; there was nothing to suggest that anyone had been in this room today.

  He stepped close to O’Malley’s door. There came a murmur of voices. He caught none of the words, until there was a sudden exclamation and O’Malley cried: “They’re beautiful!”

  “I haven’t seen sparklers like—” began the cyclist.

  “Be quiet now,” said O’Malley. “Quiet, now.”

  The speaker went on in a lower voice, while Mannering stood with his fingers on the door handle, guessing the truth. Ferris had been waylaid and robbed; the four rose-tinted diamonds were now in O’Malley’s room.

  O’Malley said, “We needn’t stay here a minute longer.”

  Footsteps came towards the door.

  Mannering stepped swiftly into the small room opposite, but left the door open, wide enough to see O’Malley standing on the threshold with the wallet in his hand.

  “Mr. Shepherd!” called O’Malley. “Mr. Shepherd!”

  “Aye, sir?” A man cried from the same floor.

  “Will you get that taxi for me, now?”

  “Yes, sir, I’ll phone at once.”

  A man in his shirtsleeves passed the doorway, walking slowly towards the telephone. O’Malley went back into his room. Mannering could get those jewels now, but that might rouse the inn and the hamlet and set rumour flying. Better to follow. But could he be sure of keeping on O Malley’s trail? He needed a car.

  Chapter Eleven

  Mannering crossed the passage again, and O’Malley’s voice came clearly.

  “Where did you get them?”

  “Near the Grange,” said the cyclist.

  “Is Ferris hurt?’

  “He’s all right, ‘cept for a cracked head.”

  “You didn’t use your gun?”

  “What do you take me for?”

  “Even you have made mistakes. Where is it?”

  There was no answer; Mannering could imagine the man touching his pocket.

  “Keep it handy,” warned O’Malley. “Mannering isn’t far away. I don’t like Mr. Mannering.”

  The gun gave Mannering his final answer; there was no sense in risking both a local scandal and a bullet. He went back into the bedroom, crossed to the open window and looked out, studying the wall and the chance of climbing out this way. It couldn’t be done without being seen; better be seen leaving by the door. He left the room. In the hall, he heard the innkeeper talking into the telephone.

  “Don’t be longer, please.”

  Then, in a loud voice:

  “Mr. Carter? That taxi will be here in three-quarters of an hour.”

  “Thank you, thank you!”

  The innkeeper went into a downstairs room and Mannering crept downstairs, unnoticed, and hurried to the kiosk, still keeping out of sight of O’Malley’s window. He called the Grange, and Lawrence answered.

  “Mr. Shayne, please, quickly.”

  “Very good, sir, please hold on. Is that Mr. Mannering?” Mannering said, “Yes,” and waited, with an eye on the inn, another on the road. Shayne wasn’t long.

  “Yes, Mannering?”

  “Have you had a message from Ferris?”

  “Ferris?” Shayne’s voice rose. “No.”

  “You will. Don’t lose time now, but bring or send your car to Hadley Village, by the war memorial. I need it to follow a certain impudent gentleman.”

  “O’Mal—”

  “Just keep your fingers crossed. Tell my wife that I shan’t be long, will you?”

  “Yes. Is that all?”

  “With any luck, it’ll be plenty. Goodbye.” Mannering hung up the receiver and glanced at his watch; it was nearly four o’clock, the taxi wasn’t due for half an hour.

  At twenty minutes past four, a car passed the kiosk. The car was a small black car, a Morris, and Marion was driving.

  She saw him, and drew up, smiling as she got out.

  “Marcus thought it better to send this, John, it’s less conspicuous than his. I can walk back.” Her eyes were bright. “What happened to Ferris?”

  “Waylaid and robbed, but not hurt badly.”

  “Have you seen him?”

  “No, I overheard a brace of rogues. Tell Shayne that it will work out all right, and don’t let Lorna worry. We ought not to be seen talking together. I must be ready to move.”

  He opened the door of the driving seat, bent almost double, and squeezed in. He heard the engine of another car, grinned up at Marion, let in the clutch, and drove down the street to a point from where he could see The Bear.

  The old Daimler taxi passed and drew up outside the inn.

  Mannering got out, adjusted the front seat to give himself more room, and climbed back. In five minutes, O’Malley appeared; ten more minutes passed while the other man’s bicycle was fastened to the luggage carrier of the taxi.

  Then they started off towards Brockenhurst.

  The Daimler was not a car to be hurried. Keeping well behind, and catching sight of it only now and again, Mannering drove at a steady thirty miles an hour.

  He saw Brockenhurst from a rise in the ground, not far from the station. When he arrived, the taxi was outside the hotel, not at the station. Mannering parked Marion’s car, walked to the booking hall, and bought a return ticket to Waterloo. He went to a platform which served local lines, not Waterloo. O’Malley and his companion stood near the footbridge at the end of the platform; they had three suitcases in front of them, and the bicycle rested against a luggage truck.

  Mannering waited until he heard the train approach. The train stopped; doors opened and the rush for seats began. If O’Malley’s end of the train was crowded, it would be just too bad.

  Mannering was among the first to reach an open door and swing himself on board. The rush forced him along the corridor, but there were no vacant seats in either first- or third-class compartments. He watched the platform tensely.

  There was no sign of O’Malley.

  After a while Mannering edged nearer a door. Southampton came in sight, the dockside cranes standing gaunt against the sky. O’Malley didn’t get out there. At Winchester, he saw the Irishman and his companion walk from the front of the train. They had the suitcases but not the bicycle. Mannering turned his back on the platform and gave them time to reach the ticket barrier; the guard’s whistle blew, the train began to move. Mannering opened the door, jumped down, crossed the platform quickly, and moved along near a wall until he reached the barrier, which led to the booking hall. There was no sign of O’Malley here.

  He tore off the outward half of his ticket and thrust it into the collector’s hand.

  “You’ll want this back, sir.”

  “What’s that?” asked Mannering; of course, he’d booked to Waterloo. “Oh, yes, thanks!” He reached the door leading to the station yard in time to see O’Malley and his companion standing in the taxi queue.

  “Make way, please!” A porter shoved him. “Make way! I—oh, good afternoon, sir.” The porter, carrying two suitcases, recognised him as a regular passenger. “Looking for a cab?”

  “Not yet. Will you do a job for me?”

  “Glad to, sir!”

  “Do you see that man with the bowler hat on the back of his head?” The porter scanned the crowd and nodded. “Good. Try to find out where he’s goi
ng when he gets a cab. I’ll wait here. It’s important.”

  He went back to the familiar booking hall, where there was a telephone booth. He called Todd, his regular taxi driver at Langley, and arranged for a cab to be here in half an hour. Now, he could relax; O’Malley would have a long wait for his cab.

  Why had O’Malley come here?

  Outside, taxis were coming and going, he could hear the impatient muttering of people left behind. The porter did not reappear until more than twenty minutes had passed. Then in a conspiratorial voice, he came and said: “They’re going to Quintin St. Mary, sir.”

  “Are they, by George!” That meant to Holly Cottage. “Good! Thanks.”

  “Pleasure, sir.” The porter would have meant it, without the half-crown which Mannering slipped into his hand. Half a dozen people were still waiting when Mannering went out and a Daimler hackney carriage, much newer than the veteran at the Grange, swept into the yard. The owner himself, one Ebenezer Todd, was at the wheel.

  There was a rush as it drew up, grumbles when Todd said, “Sorry, I’m booked. ‘Evenin’, sir!’

  “Quick work, Todd. I’m in a hurry, don’t get out.” He jumped in and slammed the door. “Are you free?”

  “All night, if you want me. What’s it all about, sir?”

  “Bad men!” Mannering laughed. “I may be imagining it, don’t get alarmed. Go the long way round, will you, and stop a little way in front of my cottage.”

  ‘Okay!” Todd trod on the gas.

  Why was O’Malley going to Holly Cottage?

  Whom to believe? O’Malley or Shayne? Shayne – but for Celia and that mystery within a mystery. It was all a far cry from Bristow’s visit and his laconic talk of unspeakable horror; horror was the keynote of Shayne’s appeal, too. What most impressed him? Shayne, yes; and the new Marion; and also O’Malley. There weren’t many crooks with O’Malley’s impudent calm.

  Todd looked round.

  “Like me to take you to the back entrance, sir? I can switch my lights off. I know that path like the palm of my hand.”