Call for the Baron Read online

  He ran through the other’s pockets. The only papers were in a pigskin wallet which Mannering hastily put on the chest of drawers, for at that point the man opened his eyes.

  They were grey, so piercing and alert that Mannering suspected he had been conscious for some minutes.

  He said, softly: ‘If you’re wise, you’ll keep quiet.’

  A narrowing of the other’s eyes was the only response, and Mannering turned again to the contents of the wallet. Several cards read:

  MR LAWRENCE WREXFORD 8,

  COURT MANSIONS

  LONDON, W.1.

  and two letters were addressed to the same address. Mannering slipped them from their envelopes. They were in different writing, but each started: ‘Darling.’

  Mannering tossed them on to the bed.

  The return half of a first-class ticket from Waterloo to Winchester, an A.A. membership card, a snapshot of Wrexford in flannels and open-necked shirt, and a hotel bill, comprised the rest of the wallet’s contents, apart from some bank and treasury notes. Mannering replaced them, and lifted a suitcase to a table where he could open it while keeping Wrexford in view.

  The case was locked, but from Wrexford’s pockets he had taken a keyring. He tried two keys before the case unlocked, and all the time Wrexford’s muscles were tense: Mannering could see him straining against the sash-cord.

  The lid went back.

  Mannering’s lips tightened behind his mask, for there was an automatic pistol lying on the top of some discarded linen. He took the gun out, saw that it was fully loaded, and laid it on the table close to his hand.

  Mannering explored the case, the interior of which was fully an inch smaller than the outside promised.

  That indicated a false bottom.

  It was so cunningly concealed that for some seconds he was unable to find it.

  Sweat was standing out on Wrexford’s forehead. He strained at his bonds, as if he were preparing to make a desperate effort in spite of his tied hands. Mannering picked the gun up.

  ‘Keep quiet, Wrexford. I’ll deal with you later.’

  The man stiffened, but fell back. Mannering pulled the lid of the false bottom up, and found an envelope beneath it that had once been wax-sealed but was now open. It was then that Wrexford lost his self-control.

  He swung his legs wildly, kicking at the table. The effort caused him to overbalance, and he pitched heavily on to the floor. Mannering pulled the man up, pushing him back on to the bed. Wrexford was breathing convulsively, but Mannering knew that he was safe from one thing; for Wrexford could have attempted to shout, but had not done so.

  Wrexford, then was afraid to raise an alarm.

  The man had exhausted himself, and Mannering backed to the table, taking the papers from the envelope. There were several that seemed ordinary business letters, but a typewritten sheet had a name in one corner which riveted Mannering’s attention.

  It was:

  ‘MORENCY’

  August 27th

  Rome:

  Tuesday 3rd September. Then

  Berlin:

  Wednesday/Thursday, 4th & 5th

  Alleno

  Bucharest:

  Friday/Saturday, 6th & 7th

  Budapest:

  Sunday 8th.

  Ankara:

  Monday/Tuesday, 9th & 10th

  Athens:

  Wednesday 11th

  Dimitrios

  Zagreb:

  Thursday/Friday, 12th & 13th

  Paris:

  Saturday/Sunday, 14th & 15th

  Scandinavia:

  Monday/Tuesday, 16th & 17th

  Wrexford

  London:

  Wednesday/Tuesday, 18th to 24th

  Mannering lifted his eyes from the paper, and there was cold anger in them. The most important thing that the list told him was that this detailed journey-sheet had been known to someone on August 27th. Before Morency had reached England, someone had been fully aware of his programme, although the Press had not been given that information, and Morency’s arrival at the various capitals had been unexpected.

  The unknowns Alleno and Dimitrios had been watching him on the Continent, while in France and Scandinavia Wrexford had operated. And now Wrexford’s chief object in England was the watching of Morency, even if Logan and Woolf were not aware of it.

  Mannering moved over to him and untied the improvised gag, first picking up the automatic.

  ‘Well?’ he said.

  The man attempted to speak, failed, and tried again. The sounds that came at last were hoarse and breathless, echoing the fear that showed in his eyes.

  ‘Keep—keep this to yourself! It’s worth a fortune!’

  Mannering said sharply. ‘How much?’

  ‘I’ll—I’ll pay you a thousand if you’ll keep quiet. In cash, I can get it tomorrow. For God’s sake don’t give me away! It’ll mean—’

  And then the telephone rang sharply.

  It cut across Wrexford’s words, and he stopped and stared towards it, his lips set and his eyes wide with alarm. Mannering went rigid, but relaxed as he backed towards the instrument, keeping the gun trained on Wrexford. He lifted the receiver and said ‘Who is that?’ in a fair imitation of the suave voice Wrexford had used with Logan.

  A man’s voice, cold and decisive, came clearly.

  ‘Get away at once, Wrexford. Don’t ask questions. Leave things as they are and get away.’

  ‘All right.’

  ‘You might have an hour’s jump of the police,’ the cold voice went on, ‘certainly no more. You know where to meet me.’

  The line went dead. Mannering turned, alive to the dangers for Wrexford and to himself. He knew that if the police caught the man they would make him talk.

  And Wrexford knew Logan’s story.

  If Wrexford talked, Mannering would take his chance. But he might learn more of the man’s activities: there was still time to try.

  ‘A thousand, is it,’ he said slowly. ‘Think again, and think in big figures.’

  ‘Who—who was that?’ gasped Wrexford.

  ‘A friend of yours named Woolf,’ Mannering lied easily. ‘He’s worried about something that happened earlier tonight.’ He saw Wrexford’s face relax, and then added casually: ‘What about those figures, Wrexford? And what guarantee have I got that you’ll pay?’

  ‘You damned fool, I’ve got to pay! I daren’t be caught.’ Wrexford’s lips worked, and his voice took on a deeper, persuasive note. ‘It’s nothing to you. I—look here, I’ll make it two thousand. Two thousand, cash on the nail.’

  ‘You can’t give it on the nail,’ Mannering said coldly. In his ear the telephone words were echoing: ‘You might have an hour’s jump of the police’. Might was the word that mattered, it meant that the police were on the way and might arrive at any time. He hardened his voice. ‘I want a guarantee of some kind. Supposing you tell me where you report with this?’ He touched the journey-sheet, watching Wrexford narrowly and seeing the quick suspicion which sprang into the man’s eyes.

  ‘That won’t help. I—’

  He stopped abruptly.

  There was a squeal of brakes, followed by the sound of heavy footsteps below.

  Silence fell, but lasted only for a moment, the lift gate clanged.

  Mannering stepped swiftly to the door. He heard the lift stop, and the mutter of voices. He made sure that the door was locked and bolted, then wedged a chair beneath the handle. A voice said sharply: ‘All right, porter, you needn’t stay.’

  A knock came sharply on the door, but it was the voice which sent alarm sheering through Mannering, a voice he recognised. It belonged to Chief Inspector Bristow, of Scotland Yard, the man he had feared was coming to Vere House.

  Mannering felt a quick nausea, but he dared waste no time. He switched off the light, as Bristow’s knock came again, hard and authoritative.

  Mannering groped his way across the room. He reached the window, and pushed it up. Bristow’s voice was raised: ‘O
pen, in the name of the law!’

  The dark, cool air rushed about Mannering’s forehead. By the faint glow from a car’s lights he could see two men.

  Bristow’s men, of course, there to make sure that no one escaped through the window.

  Mannering’s mind was cool and alert, conscious of the danger and yet holding without panic to what chance remained.

  If he could get back to his room he might get through.

  He put one leg over the sill, pushed his head and shoulders through, hearing the banging on the door growing louder and more insistent. He groped with his right hand along the outside wall, touched the framework of a window.

  There was a chance!

  He pulled himself out, too intent to think of slipping, too desperate to move too slowly. He stood with his feet on the sill of Wrexford’s room and his hands gripping the stonework about the other window, and then he swung outwards putting all his weight on his fingers.

  His right hand slipped.

  Panic went through him like a white-hot pain, and he grabbed desperately while trying to find the lower sill with his feet. His shoe touched it, but was followed by a beam of light coming upwards from the street and focusing on Wrexford’s open window. It moved along, and Mannering saw it about his feet. It betrayed him, but showed him the sill and enabled him to get foothold. Shouts came from the men below.

  From farther away there was a crash: Bristow had forced the door of Wrexford’s room.

  Mannering swayed backwards, unable to escape the beam of light shining on his back. With his free hand he pulled at the window. It opened abruptly, and as he swung himself through he caught a glimpse of a red-faced man in pyjamas.

  Mannering reached the door, took the key out, slipped through to the empty but lighted passage, then locked the door behind him.

  Then, for the first time, he hesitated. If he passed Wrexford’s room, Bristow might see him. He glanced in the other direction. Relief surged through him when he saw a narrow flight of stairs.

  Before he reached them a yell came from the room he had passed through, and a frantic hammering. A voice was raised: ‘Next door—fast!’

  Mannering reached the second floor, finding a passage similar to that below. He stepped towards Room 9 and entered it as a door in the passage opened, and a nervous voice called: ‘Here – what’s up?’

  The shouting and banging continued from below, but was deadened as Mannering closed the door. He was breathing hard, but he dared not relax. A search of the hotel was inevitable, and he had to get away; he dared not come face to face with Bristow.

  He glanced round swiftly to make sure he had left nothing, then switched off the light and, cautiously, pushed the window up. He heard no sound of movement and saw nothing, but there was sure to be one of Bristow’s men guarding the back. He waited, accustoming his eyes to the darkness, and then estimating the drop.

  It was twenty feet or more: he dared not risk a jump.

  He was working swiftly, reckoning only on the chances of a getaway, forgetful of all other issues. His mind had slipped automatically back to the days of the Baron, and it was the Baron who ripped the clothes from the bed, tied two sheets together, and then, fastening one end of them to the foot of the bed, wound the other about his arm, and climbed through the window. The sheet pulled taut as he went down. He could not see the ground, but when the sheets had run their full length he lowered his legs cautiously.

  He dropped.

  For a sickening second he thought that the gap would prove to be too great. Then his feet touched the ground with a jarring impact. He staggered forward.

  And then the beam of a torch shone straight into his face.

  He stood motionless, his eyes narrowed, his fists clenched. A man said with satisfaction.

  ‘Oh no, you don’t!’

  Mannering went forward.

  He could see only the white orb of the torch, and nothing of the man behind it, but he dashed the torch away and then struck out. His fist caught the other in the stomach, and the man lurched forward, staggered, and fell.

  Vaguely Mannering could see the roof of the next building.

  Was the courtyard of the White Angel walled?

  It was not.

  Mannering reached a cobbled drive-in, dived through an open gate, and found himself in the High Street. Then he heard Bristow’s voice: ‘Get round to the back both of you!’

  Mannering stepped, a little unsteadily, into the road, wrenching off his scarf and slipping it into his pocket. The dim lights from several parked cars guided him to the M.G.

  Thankfully, he slipped into the driving seat.

  Sometime after Mannering had driven away, Chief Inspector William Bristow sat in the Superintendent’s office at the Winchester police station, and spoke into the telephone.

  ‘Yes, sir,’ he said. ‘I’ve got Wrexford, with all the papers we need to prove the case against him. There’s no evidence who he was working for, though.’

  ‘That will come. Anything else?’

  ‘There was someone else with him before us. Wrexford swears he does not know who.’

  ‘Have you any idea?’ The voice of Sir David Ffoulkes, Assistant Commissioner of Scotland Yard, sharpened.

  ‘No sir,’ said Bristow. ‘It was someone after Wrexford, that’s all we do know. There is another thing, though. As we thought, Wrexford was working under cover of the Woolf Agency. He was retaining them at a good fee, but Woolf says that he was employed only to watch Lady Usk’s jewels. I doubt whether Woolf or the man Logan know what Wrexford’s real game was.’

  ‘You want to leave them, is that it?’

  ‘I think it would be wise, sir,’ said Bristow cautiously. ‘I can have them watched and if they do know more than I think, we’ll find out better by giving them enough rope. Is that in order?’

  ‘I’ll leave it to you, Bristow. Wrexford’s the man we were anxious about. Your principal down there should be pleased.’

  Bristow’s lips relaxed in a smile.

  ‘I hope so, sir. I’ll go along and see him in the morning, and see what this burglary looks like, too. But I doubt if it’s connected with the visitor. If it was, Wrexford was behind it, and we’ll soon have the facts.’

  ‘All right,’ said the A.G. slowly. ‘Handle it with the utmost discretion, Bristow.’

  ‘I’ll watch everything, sir,’ said Bristow with confidence.

  There was a slight pause, and then the Assistant Commissioner said casually: ‘I’m sure you will. Including Mannering, Bristow.’

  ‘Who?’

  The bellow brought no more than a dry chuckle from the Assistant Commissioner.

  ‘Why, yes, I’ve just been informed that he’s down there. I believe Mr Vere is consulting him about the robbery.’

  Slowly Bristow replaced the receiver, and stared grimly across the office.

  ‘So the Baron’s down there, is he? Now I wonder—’

  He was thinking of the report that a plainclothes man at the back of the house had given, and a statement from the red-faced man through whose room the unknown had escaped. Both had testified to a scarf tied across the lower half of the unknown man’s face.

  Was it coincidence that the Baron had so often used a scarf in just such a way?

  Bristow pulled the telephone towards him, and calling Martin Vere, said that he would be there by midnight.

  Chapter Eleven

  Bristow’s Questions

  The likely thing for Bristow to do, reasoned Mannering, was to visit Vere House as soon as Wrexford was in the police cell. If Bristow reached the house that night it would not necessarily mean that he had any reason for associating the Baron with the night’s escapade. But Mannering felt on edge, aware of the impossibility of hiding the fact that he had been out. Probably Vere would volunteer a statement to that effect; evasion was out of the question, and he had to find a reasonable explanation, or at least one which Bristow would be unable to disprove.

  He had thrown the automatic and t
he necklace into some bushes in a narrow lane. At least they would not be found easily.

  The drive gates were open, and he reached the garage as a clock struck eleven. He put the M.G. away, locked the garage door and put the key over the lintel. When he reached the hall Ransome was leaving the drawing room. The butler turned towards him, not trying to hide his curiosity.

  ‘How long has Logan been back?’ Mannering put disappointment into his voice and his expression.

  ‘Well over half-an-hour, sir.’

  ‘I lost him,’ said Mannering disgustedly. ‘Where’s Mr Vere?’

  ‘I think everyone who has not gone to bed, sir, is in here.’ Ransome opened the drawing-room door, and Mannering went through. The Veres, Lorna, Menzies and Dryden – the poet talking earnestly to Hilda Markham, the economist – were there. Dryden looked up sharply.

  None of the others showed any particular interest, but it was not long before Hilda Markham declared it was time she went to bed. Menzies and Dryden rose with her, and as the Veres saw all three of their guests to the foot of the stairs, Lorna turned quickly to Mannering.

  ‘What went wrong?’ she said quietly.

  ‘Bristow’s in Winchester.’

  ‘Did you see him?’

  ‘I heard him,’ Mannering said, ‘but we didn’t meet face to face. My story for the Veres is that I confused the Daimler with another, and I’ve spent the past hour or so on a wild goose chase. I’ll slip into your room later with details. Were you able to check up on Cecilie?’

  ‘She went to bed all right,’ Lorna said.

  As she spoke, the Veres rejoined them.

  Vere was plainly disappointed by the story, but it was Diana’s reaction which Mannering studied more closely. Though she hid her disappointment at the failure of the chase, there was no disguising her apprehension.

  Vere said at last: ‘Oh, well, it can’t be helped. A good night’s rest won’t do us any harm.’ He yawned, and at that moment the telephone rang.