A Case for the Baron Read online

  “Good idea.” A whitewashed wall loomed up – where Mannering and Lorna had met Bristow. From the beginning, Lorna had been worried and uneasy about Marion’s invitations; she must have smelt danger.

  Todd switched off the car lights.

  “Here we are, sir!”

  “Thanks. Wait by the white wall, will you?”

  Mannering crossed a small orchard at the back of Holly Cottage, and, through a gap in a fine beech hedge, saw another taxi in front of the house. That put an end to conjecture; he didn’t even have to guess whether O’Malley was out on dirty work. Todd hadn’t driven off yet; he—

  He exclaimed aloud, turned, and hurried back. Todd was lighting a cigarette by the side of the car.

  “Use the village telephone, call Sir Robert Ley at Hadley Grange, near Brockenhurst – Hadley 12. Ask for my wife, tell her we’ve had unexpected visitors and I’d like her to get back here as soon as she can.”

  “Right, sir – Hadley 12?”

  From the cottage garden, Mannering watched the house. A light showed at the living-room window – it would be quite dark inside, for it was nearly dark out here.

  He reached the wall by the side of the window. A small window at the top was open – but securely fastened inside; it could not be opened further.

  He heard the ting! of the telephone, and peered into the room. O’Malley was moving away from the telephone.

  “That’s fixed him,” he said jubilantly, and called, “You okay?”

  Mannering heard no answer. The engine of the taxi at the front started. He bent down and picked up a stone from the flower border. Bad for the window, but O’Malley mustn’t—

  “Drop it,” a man said from behind him.

  Mannering swung round, and heard O’Malley rush across the room. Light streamed out, and showed the other man, tall and menacing, with a gun in his right hand.

  O’Malley thrust open the window. “Got him?”

  “He’s okay. Not a crack out of him. I said drop it, mister!” The gun moved, Mannering’s hold on the stone tightened, then relaxed; it dropped.

  “Get a move on,” the gunman growled.

  O’Malley was waiting for them by the taxi.

  “Inside,” said O’Malley. “You can have a nice little rest. Enjoying yourself?” They climbed in.

  O’Malley had said, “That’s fixed him.” So this was a frame-up; they weren’t planning murder.

  There was a glass partition in the car; the driver couldn’t hear.

  “Listen, Mannering,” said O’Malley, “I’ve planted some hot stuff at your house, see. And I’ve telephoned the police. Your old pal Bristow! Won’t he get a shock when he knows that his high society friend is a common thief!”

  “He would if he believed it.”

  But Bristow would believe it of the Baron.

  “He’ll believe the evidence,” sneered O’Malley. “Policemen always do. Maybe you think you’ve an alibi? You won’t have an alibi for receiving hot stuff, will you?”

  He wouldn’t have an alibi at all; no defence against this.

  The taxi was rattling along, the gun jabbing into his side. He was sitting with his back to the driver. He could see the road behind him and caught a glimpse of another car. It kept well behind this one.

  He felt sure that it was Todd’s Daimler. After a while, the lights went out on the following car. Todd was driving on this taxi’s lights. Could Todd help with the one thing that mattered – getting him back to the cottage and finding what O’Malley had planted there, before Bristow arrived? Helping the police unofficially was one thing, holding stolen goods another. Bristow was a policeman first, a friend afterwards.

  O’Malley took a small bottle from his pocket. He shook two tablets onto the palm of his hand.

  “Try a couple of aspirins, Mr. Mannering.”

  “No headache,” Mannering said.

  “You will have!” The man by his side got up and sat down again by O’Malley. Without warning, he jabbed Mannering in the stomach. As Mannering jerked forward the man pinched his nose and forced his mouth open. O’Malley pushed the tablets in; the other held Mannering’s head back and poked the gun hard against his stomach. The tablets stuck in his throat, and he began to cough, brought the tablets into his mouth again. Then O’Malley leaned forward, and for the first time Mannering had a chance to get at the gunman’s arm. He struck it aside, punched hard, jolted O’Malley in the teeth with his elbow – swift, telling blows. The tablets fell out of his mouth as the taxi bumped along.

  He was coughing and gasping when he put his weight on the handle.

  The door swung open as the car turned a corner, at no more than twenty miles an hour. The road was narrow, with a grassy bank beside it. Mannering fell onto the bank. There was light enough to see the gun in O’Malley’s hand.

  The driver heard the door banging, gasped, opened the throttle. With the door still swinging, the car turned the corner and disappeared, its engine roaring. Todd’s car, still without lights, hummed past.

  He knew that he was on a by-road, some two miles from Winchester. Todd had probably been noticed, by now; that was why O’Malley’s driver had turned off the main road. How could he get back to the cottage before Bristow? Was Bristow in Winchester? If so, he wouldn’t be long, and it might take Mannering an hour or two to get home. There were few cars in wartime England, little hope of a lift on a Sunday evening, and Winchester was the nearest place to get a cab.

  He walked quickly, his bruises aching. From a telephone kiosk he called Todd’s garage; a woman told him that no taxis were in. At last he turned into the station yard, the only place where he might find a taxi, and saw Todd standing by his big car.

  “Hello, sir! I knew you must be about somewhere, I saw you in the back of the other cab.”

  “Did you follow it all the way?”

  “No, the beggar foxed me. I came on, and waited where the road he took joins the main one. You weren’t with him then, so I followed him. He went to the George, with his passengers. His taxi’s still outside the hotel.”

  “Wonderful Todd! Now, back to the cottage as fast as you know how!”

  Mannering climbed in, as Todd said, “You’ve had a fall, sir, haven’t you? I told myself, soon as this game started, that you were on the go again, sir. Often read about you in the papers.”

  Todd drove fast through the back streets, and swung into the wide High Street. Suddenly a man on the pavement swung round and jumped in front of them. Todd swerved to avoid him and pulled up angrily.

  The man wrenched open the door. Mannering tensed himself, and Todd switched on the roof-light.

  The man at the door was Meyer, eyes bright and glittering.

  “Must see you, sir. It’s urgent.”

  “All safe, Todd.” Mannering jumped out.

  “What is it, Meyer?” How far away was Bristow?

  “I was on the train, but couldn’t get through to you, sir. I got off ahead of the others and picked up a cab. Damned old wreck, it broke down as soon as it started. You had any luck, sir?”

  “I know where the diamonds are. Mustn’t waste time.”

  “Have you seen Bristow? Saw him twenty minutes ago, by a bit o’ luck. I thought I’d better slow him down, and fixed his tires. He’s at the Western Hotel, waiting for another car.”

  “What made you stop him?”

  “I can put two and two together with the next man,” grinned Meyer. “I went round to the local police station after losing O’Malley. You never know who’ll turn up there. Bristow did. I fixed two tyres while the car was outside. He got as far as the hotel, and that finished him.”

  “What are you going to do?”

  “Find O’Malley!”

  “He’s at the George. Keep him in sight, and remember that he has those diamonds but don’t try to get them back. Don’t risk a clash with the police, either. Just keep tabs on O’Malley. He’s got a man with him, tall, thin-faced chap.”

  “I’ll watch them all right.”


  “Where is this Western Hotel?”

  “Just along the road, sir. Look, there’s a taxi drawing up now. That’ll be Bristow’s.”

  As Mannering nodded and climbed hurriedly back into the cab, Meyer slammed the door.

  “Now we’re really in a hurry,” Mannering said, and Todd showed what his car could do.

  Mannering could get to the cottage first, but that wasn’t enough. He must have time to search, to get rid of the ‘hot’ stuff.

  Chapter Twelve

  “We’ve got to knock ten minutes off the journey, Todd,” said Mannering. “Still game to lend a hand?’

  “Anything you say, sir!” Todd was eager.

  “Then listen. Drop me at my cottage, go back along the Winchester Road, and, at the bottleneck near the bridge, have a skid. The skid will put you right across the road. It wouldn’t surprise me if there’s quite a traffic block.”

  “I’ve got you!” Todd turned and grinned.

  “Don’t let on that you’ve been driving me, and don’t worry if a man in a Winchester taxi loses his temper.”

  “How long do you want him delayed?”

  “The longer the better. Half an hour at least.”

  “I’ll fix it.” Todd was confident.

  He cut ten minutes off the usual time for the journey and was off again before Mannering had opened the garden gate. Mannering waved to him, and let himself in.

  There was a faint smell of tobacco smoke in the hall, but nothing else to show that the house had been entered.

  He glanced in all the rooms, and saw a cigarette butt in the main bedroom; not his or Lorna’s. Nothing appeared to have been disturbed, but after opening several of the drawers he knew that O’Malley had been at them. He ran through the contents, but found nothing to explain O’Malley’s visit.

  The chest of drawers and the dressing table yielded nothing. He went through the wardrobe, still without result. He lifted the mattresses up, but there was nothing beneath them, nothing between the sheets or blankets.

  The two spare rooms had not been disturbed. The bathroom was just as he had left it; the box-room door was locked, Lorna had the key. He blacked out the windows on that floor, then hurried downstairs.

  He drew these blackout curtains quickly. That had to be done; lights blazing out would bring the village air-raid warden, perhaps the local police constable, at the double.

  A small room next to the dining room served as a morning room and library. He looked into it and noticed that a door of one of the tall, glass-fronted bookcases had been left open. Some books were out of order. He pulled out several, but found nothing behind them. He glanced at his watch again. He had been here for twenty-five minutes; Todd wouldn’t be able to hold Bristow back much longer.

  Then he saw a faint smear of red paint on the glass of the bookcase.

  Lipstick? Rouge? It was slimy, more like fresh oil paint, and there was a faint impression of a fingerprint beside it. Paint!

  ‘The attic!” he exclaimed. “The studio!”

  He raced up the stairs to the attic, hauled himself through the loft-hole, approached the easel on which stood the covered portrait of Cherry. He stared at the palette; smeared marks, of large, spatulate gloved fingers, were daubed there.

  He thought he heard a car pull up, and looked round the room, heart pumping like an engine. O’Malley had touched the palette; he had been near the stool and the easel.

  Mannering pulled at the cover which was draped over the General. One side felt much heavier than the other. The cloth was in rolls at the bottom, and he unrolled it hurriedly, clumsily. He felt something hard inside.

  A car door slammed, in the road.

  There were several little pieces of cotton-wool. Mannering pulled them open and looked down at six lustrous pearls. Beauties – but stolen, hot as they could be, enough to see him in dock on a charge of receiving.

  He heard the faint ringing of the front-door bell.

  He took out his handkerchief, dropped the pearls into it, tied a knot in one corner, so that they could not fall out, then thrust the handkerchief back in his pocket.

  Bristow, by himself, would have no right to search him. But Bristow would expect to find the cottage empty, must have decided to take a chance and look through it himself, simply on the strength of that phone call.

  Had anything else been planted? No. O’Malley would think the pearls enough.

  The bell rang again as Mannering climbed down the loft ladder and hurried quietly along the landing. After the ring, there was a loud knock on the studded oak front door. Bristow wanted to make quite sure that the cottage was empty before taking the law in his own hands.

  Bristow was unorthodox; few Yard men would take the chance of forcing entry without a warrant, but if he had obtained one, he would not have come to execute it by himself. He’d visited the local police station and come away alone; that spoke volumes. He was going to be sure of his facts before he put Mannering on the spot.

  There was another loud knock and ring; then footsteps sounded along the gravel path which ran round the cottage. Mannering went cautiously downstairs. He thought he heard the window being tried; all were latched securely.

  He saw Bristow holding a torch and inserting a knife between the two window panes, trying to push the catch to one side. Bristow was making a clumsy job of it.

  The Baron could teach him! There was a sharp click.

  Bristow put his knife away, then pushed the window gently, still holding the torch.

  He took off his overcoat and pushed it into the room. Freer to move, he climbed through and stepped lightly down, then, listened intently, before he approached the door.

  He put out the torch.

  Mannering kept behind the door. Bristow pushed it open, cautiously – and Mannering leapt at him!

  He struck out lightly; surprise more than the blow sent Bristow reeling back. Mannering shot out a hand and grabbed his wrists, saving him from the fall. He lowered the Yard man to the floor, switched on a light – then stared as if stupefied.

  “Bristow!”

  A dazed and bewildered Bristow glared up at him.

  “Copper turned crook!” gasped Mannering. Bristow scrambled to his feet, red-faced, harsh of voice. “Why the devil didn’t you open the door? I made enough noise to raise the dead. You must have heard me!”

  Chapter Thirteen

  “If anyone has a right to be indignant, William, I have. I thought I’d caught a burglar.” Mannering’s eyes rounded. “What the devil are you up to? Is this a new form of police practice? Learning how it’s done so that you can catch your crooks quicker?” Bristow grinned.

  It was a spontaneous grin, lighting up his face; and it was familiar to Mannering. In Bill Bristow there was a saving sense of humour, and it came to his rescue now – if Mannering let it.

  “What’s so funny?” Mannering scowled, to keep up the game a little longer.

  “So you’ve beaten me to it again,” said Bristow. “John, I’m sorry, but—”

  “You’re not half as sorry for me as you probably will be for yourself. In legal vernacular, you have committed a felony.”

  Bristow’s grin grew crooked.

  “I can justify it. I don’t want to believe that things are as black against you as they look. I came on my own because I couldn’t believe that the Baron was active again. Now I know he is.”

  “Oh, get the Baron out of your system! We’re not acquainted.”

  “We won’t argue about that. John, information was lodged with me a short while ago. It implicated you up to the neck. I preferred to have a look round myself before talking official action. Wasn’t that friendly?”

  Mannering said gently, “William, face facts. You shouldn’t have broken in here. I expected a burglar, but certainly didn’t expect a C.I.D. bigwig. I would take any other man along to the local peeler and charge him, but I’d hate to do that to an old friend! What queer notion has got into your head to make you turn this somersault? I
t surely can’t be the old idée fixe – bold bad Baron and me. If it is, why come to me for help? Part of the conspiracy to frame me?”

  “I told you why I came.”

  “And I believe you, then.”

  “It’s still true.”

  “Whether it is or not, what are we going to do about this?” It was difficult to keep poker-faced with laughter bubbling inside him. “What do you think the newspapers would say? You might conciliate your Boss, but—”

  “Now be reasonable, John!” said Bristow.

  “I’m to be reasonable! All I’ve been doing for the last five minutes is getting at why you’re here. A plausible story about information lodged is just blah. What’s it all about?’

  “I wonder what you are up to?” Bristow mused.

  “I thought I was unofficially helping the police. I’ll keep your misdemeanour as a card up my sleeve; it might come in useful if you get more queer ideas. Don’t forget how the press would lap it up. You did ask me to find out what I could about Marcus Shayne, didn’t you? You were serious? It wasn’t a phoney move to get me away from here?”

  “It wasn’t, and it was serious.”

  “All right. I acted in good faith when I went to Hadley Grange. I am a law-abiding citizen always striving to help the police. You thought that Shayne had some deep motive for getting me to the Grange. I doubted whether Shayne had any influence on Lady Ley. You were right, up to a point. I had hardly been at the Grange for an hour before I knew that both Shayne and Lady Ley wanted to see me on business. They wanted my help as a bloodhound. Shayne’s being shot at – literally. I saw a gunman. Shayne has what he calls a deadly enemy. I think he’s right. Shayne doesn’t know the man, but does know some of his thugs and gunmen.”

  Bristow sat in an easy chair. He looked thoughtful.

  “Shayne wants me to find out who is after his blood. He thinks the enemy may be a close friend or a business acquaintance. He wants to make sure that he doesn’t cause a scandal. He would prefer to know the truth before calling the police. That’s his statement, all I can tell you. He doesn’t employ a private detective agency, but wants help from someone who won’t try to blackmail him or talk to the Press.”