The Baron Returns Read online

  It was a nasty moment for the Baron.

  He found himself staring into the eyes of Chief Inspector Rennett, of the City Police, a man who looked at once capable and ruthless.

  Mannering kept smiling, but his heart was thumping.

  Rennett stared at him; and Bristow drew a deep breath. Mannering was telling himself for some odd reason that this was a showdown, that Bristow had come here particularly to see him, to let Rennett see him.

  ‘Hallo, Bill,’ he said, and he was relieved to find that his voice was steady.

  Bill Bristow smiled in apparent good humour.

  ‘Hallo, Mannering! Rennett, this is Mr. John Mannering. Chief Inspector Rennett, of the City Police.’

  Mannering and Rennett nodded. Rennett was smiling, and the Baron could not rid himself of the feeling that the man knew him.

  ‘Haven’t I seen your name displayed recently?’ Mannering was taking the bull by the horns; attack, attack, always attack!

  Rennett chuckled, and Mannering warmed to the man.

  ‘That little affair at Liverpool Street.’

  ‘A lively customer, your thief.’

  ‘We all admit that of the Baron!’

  Mannering chuckled, feeling much easier.

  ‘Don’t tell me you’re falling for Bill’s pièce de resistance. Take a burglar in a blue mask and call him the Baron.’

  Old Bill snorted.

  ‘Look here, Mannering; I—’

  ‘No offence, Bill, no offence.’ Mannering took out cigarettes and proffered them. Rennett, his keen grey eyes sweeping the Baron up and down, obviously had a sense of humour. ‘I suppose you’re hoping the Baron will try something today?’

  ‘I doubt it,’ said Bristow. ‘Now I’ve seen you.’

  Mannering shrugged. That was little more than a broad hint that he had told Rennett of his suspicions.

  ‘I can’t see the connection, Bill. Mr. Rennett, be advised by me and don’t accept all Bristow’s theories.’

  He smiled, excused himself, and stepped across to the Dowager Countess of Kenton, who adored John Mannering despite the fact that the Dowager, being rich and fond of jewels, had suffered at the Baron’s hands. The Countess was an elderly woman who carried her age well. In some ways she was a likeable old soul, with her lined, faded face and her wonderful dresses, and the jewels that sparkled on her scraggy hands.

  ‘Oh, John, I’ve been waiting to see you! I heard from Lucy yesterday, and she said that Lorna was hoping that you’d go north and . . .’

  ‘I’m planning to go up on Monday or Tuesday,’ agreed Mannering. Lucy, Lady Fauntley, was a bosom friend of the Dowager.

  ‘That’s splendid, that’s splendid,’ said Lady Kenton, ‘er, John, did I see you talking to that policeman?’

  ‘Yes, but there’s nothing to worry about today. And Bristows all right.’

  ‘I detest the man,’ said the Dowager. ‘Well, John, what do you think of this wonderful exhibition? What a pity Lucy missed it – and Lorna, of course. I’ve never seen such jewels, and I’m sure no one else could have done. I—my dear, must you go?’

  ‘I’m sorry,’ said Mannering, shaking hands, ‘but I must.’

  He took his leave of Fauntley soon afterwards, and sauntered to Bloom Street.

  The papers he had taken from Lobjoit’s office were now in a safe deposit, but he had copied certain information about a Mr. Jonathan Didcotte. Before thinking about the Didcotte affair, Mannering read a letter that had just arrived. It was from Flick Leverson, although it was signed Jones, and told Mannering that Chief Inspector Rennett’s car had been insured, but that the Chief Inspector had suffered a net loss of just under twenty pounds due to damage to uninsured property.

  Mannering, who always carried a reserve of cash, put twenty pound notes in an envelope with a slip of paper reading, ‘With the compliments of the Baron, for unwitting damages,’ and afterwards registered the letter to Rennett at the City Police headquarters. He burned Leverson’s letter, then took out a written summary of the affairs of Jonathan Didcotte. Didcotte appeared to be an American millionaire who was soon to be a victim of Teevens and Lobjoit.

  That the precious pair would leave Didcotte alone was now practically certain, but there was information about him in the papers, in particular that his methods of making money were not always legal.

  Mr. Didcotte was worthy of a visit, and the Baron decided to locate him very soon.

  Chapter Ten

  MANNERING IS SURPRISED

  The papers which the Baron had taken from Lobjoit’s office had given him Jonathan Didcotte’s address, but had failed to record any note of his clubs or hobbies apart from the fact that he was a financial juggler with few scruples.

  The Baron was in the saddle in earnest now. He had started because of Teevens and the Purnall necklace, and the first haul had given him the momentum that had been missing for some time past. The fact that Fauntley was out of the mess in which he had managed to entangle himself meant that Mannering was unlikely to have any urgent demands on his resources. But the desire to work was there, and a curiosity about Didcotte was overwhelming.

  The cryptic pencilled note in the stolen papers had been illuminating; it had read, ‘Connected with Raviky, Krugen and other affairs.’

  The Baron’s imagination could fill in many blanks, for the information showed that Jonathan Didcotte had been associated with two financiers who had painted Europe red.

  But where was he? And why had Mannering never heard of him?

  Mannering decided to get in touch with Flick Leverson again, this time in person. Before going to the East End he took a train to Wimbledon, where he rented a flat as Mr. Mayle, but he did not go as John Mannering. He spent some time with his make-up box, and in front of his eyes became that rather plump, fat-faced gentleman of business or one of the professions. He went first to Wimbledon because he had been away from his house there for some weeks, and wanted to prepare his housekeeper.

  The house was called The Grove, and was a small detached residence, hemmed in by a tall hedge and stunted trees, facing the Wimbledon-Merton road and backing on to Wimbledon Common. Mrs. Jenson, the worthy keeper of Mr. Mayle’s keys, was a short, stout, red-cheeked body of a type to be met in hundreds in the Home Countries, who knew she had a good job – for Mr. Mayle was away travelling so often – and did her best to justify it. Mannering had told himself occasionally that Mrs. Jenson had an eye to the future and matrimony; what she would have said had she seen him without the padding round his middle, the packing that gave his back a slight hump, and the rubber cheek-pads that fattened his cheeks Mannering could not imagine.

  He found The Grove invaluable for receiving parcels and letters that he did not want the police to find at his flat.

  Mrs. Jenson beamed as she opened the door.

  ‘Bless my soul, sir, I did think you’d forgotten me!’

  ‘Could I ever do that?’ Mannering smiled.

  ‘Stop your blarney,’ retorted Mrs. Jenson, and laughed to show sound teeth. ‘Will you be staying for a few days?’

  ‘Probably,’ said Mannering cautiously. He committed himself as little as he could as Mr. Mayle. ‘Is there any post?’

  ‘Why, yes, sir – a pile in your room. Will you be in to dinner?’

  ‘No, but I’d love to have some tea.’

  Mannering went sedately up the stairs to his bedroom. The letters and parcels addressed by John Mannering to Mr. Mayle were waiting, including the odds and ends he had taken from Teevens’s house. He burned most of the letters, sent to keep the existence of Mr. Mayle real to Mrs. Jenson, without opening them. He slipped the trinkets into his pocket, and went downstairs to toasted muffins and home-made pastries.

  As Mr. Mayle he had an experience of home life that was very different from that at his
flat or at the Elan, where he stayed from time to time. Mrs. Jenson kept on laughing at the sallies of her good-natured, prosperous and not-so-bad-looking employer, and protesting when he said he had to go. Mannering felt a curious kind of contentment when he left the house and went, by various stages, to Wine Street, Aldgate.

  Wine Street was not a pretentious thoroughfare, but it housed two doctors and a solicitor. Between the two doctors’ residence was a small terrace house that looked spruce and clean from the outside and was as clean as a new pin inside.

  A neatly dressed maid opened the door, standing aside as she saw Mannering, whom she knew as Mr. Smith.

  ‘Mr. Leverson is in his room, sir. He says you can go straight up.’

  Flick Leverson was perhaps the most honest and astute fence in London. He had been watching the street and had anticipated Mannering’s call. Had a policeman approached from either direction Leverson would have had any stolen goods on the premises secreted. The only time he had ever been gaoled was after he had been travelling with stolen jewels in his pockets, and a ‘split’ had informed the police. Only Leverson himself knew where he hid his jewels in the Wine Street house.

  Leverson was a tall, white-haired, amiable-looking man, with glowing cheeks and a charming smile. He had only one arm.

  ‘Come in, come in.’ Leverson extended his right hand, waited until the door was closed and the girl out of earshot, although he could trust his servants, and then chuckled. ‘How’s the Baron these days? He’s been busy, I’m told.’

  ‘I’ve heard the same thing,’ said Mannering drily.

  He did not glance round, for he knew the room well. It was plainly furnished, but every stick and every ornament was a genuine antique. Mannering knew the value of the furniture was at least twenty thousand pounds, and he knew also that in private life – as apart from his profession – Leverson was a genuine dealer and a lover of old furniture.

  ‘A very daring job, the Bishopsgate one,’ smiled Leverson, taking glasses from a cupboard in a Queen Anne desk. ‘You’ll have a sherry? Or a . . .’

  ‘Thank you.’ Mannering sat down and took a cigar-case from his pocket. He extracted a cigar and pressed the thick end. The cigar opened down the middle, revealing an opening three inches long and half an inch wide; Leverson chuckled.

  ‘A new hiding-place, eh?’

  Mannering smiled as he let half-a-dozen small stones fall from the hollow interior of the cigar.

  ‘A trick cigar some humorist sent me at Christmas. I’ve only just realised how useful it can be.’

  ‘Yes, yes, you’re very slow,’ smiled Leverson. ‘Now try a real cigar. Habana Perfectione – and perfection they are.’

  Mannering watched him pour out the sherry and take a cigar-box from his desk. The trinkets were scattered about it, although Leverson had not apparently glanced at them. Mannering sipped the sherry and pronounced it good.

  ‘The Bishopsgate job wasn’t too clean,’ he admitted.

  ‘The devil looks after his own, eh? I can’t say I think that’s much of a haul from Teevens and Lobjoit.’

  ‘What are they worth?’ asked Mannering.

  He knew that Flick Leverson was a fence; he knew that most fences could not be trusted, yet he was prepared to take Leverson’s valuation of stolen gems as final.

  The white-haired old gentleman – a perfect portrait of a country squire, Mannering often thought – picked a diamond ring from the desk, glanced at it and flicked it back to the desk. That little habit of his annoyed many people, and had also earned him his nickname.

  ‘Well, that’s a good stone.’ He repeated the manoeuvre with an emerald pendant, a ruby brooch, a diamond hair-clip and two other rings. ‘All fairly good. Seven-fifty.’

  ‘Thanks,’ said Mannering, and the subject of the deal was finished. ‘Yes, it’s a poor showing for the two jobs, but there should be more to come as a result. The necklace . . .’

  ‘I’ve heard,’ smiled Leverson. ‘Mrs. Purnall has it back.’

  ‘How do you get your information?’ Mannering demanded.

  ‘There are ways and means. As a matter of fact, Mrs. Purnall was trying to borrow some money from a friend of mine, and yesterday cancelled the negotiations. She also said that Teevens had rescued the money she had “lost”, and had returned the necklace. So we live and learn,’ went on Leverson. ‘You’re a strange man, Smith. You risked burgling Lobjoit’s place for Fauntley, of course. You’ll forgive me for making it quite so blunt, but . . .’

  ‘What made you think so?’ asked Mannering.

  ‘Because Fauntley’s papers were stolen with Mrs. Purnall’s and Didcotte’s; I know you know Mrs. Purnall, or she would not have had her jewels back. You’ve made enquiries about Didcotte, so the other motive must have been Fauntley.’ Leverson laughed. ‘But I’m not curious. I’ve some news for you.’

  Leverson stood up and stepped to a small cupboard in the far corner of the room. He unlocked it, taking out several wads of five-pound and one-pound notes. Mannering heard him counting them under his breath, and waited until the fence turned to him again, handing over the payment for the jewels.

  ‘Thanks. Did you say news?’

  ‘Yes, yes, and good news, I hope. I’ve traced Didcotte’s movements for you. He’s an American, aged forty-eight, rents the flat you told me about, is a member of the American Club, and patronises Mendor’s when he’s in London.’

  ‘Mendor’s? Yet I’ve never met him.’

  ‘Perhaps because he’s such an unassuming man,’ said Leverson. ‘One of those men you can sit with in a railway carriage for a hundred journeys, and know the colour of his eyes and his taste in ties, but not his name. He is reputed to be worth several million pounds,’ added Leverson.

  ‘It’s first-class news,’ said Mannering.

  Mannering spent that night at Wimbledon, breakfasted off an excellent ham, Mrs. Jenson had cooked the previous night, banked Leverson’s seven hundred and fifty pounds to Mayle’s credit at Putney, and then returned to Bloom Street, changing in a public cloakroom, a device he often employed.

  From Bloom Street he went to Fauntley’s home. Fauntley was bouncing about the house like a two-year-old, and he came rushing into the hall to greet Mannering, looking ten years younger.

  ‘My dear John, a thousand thanks, a thousand thanks! I could hardly believe it this morning!’

  ‘Steady,’ said Mannering, and glanced towards a butler whose discretion might be perfect but whose tongue might wag in wine. Fauntley half dragged Mannering into the library, poured out his thanks afresh, and demanded to know how the miracle had been accomplished.

  Mannering knew that he had achieved a great deal that mattered in the past few days.

  If Fauntley should ever learn that he was the Baron he would not talk, for indirectly Fauntley himself would have benefited from the Baron’s exploits. Mannering did not want him to know the truth, but he was always prepared for emergencies.

  He told Fauntley what he had told Teevens; that through an acquaintance he had arranged to get the papers from Lobjoit’s offices. Fauntley had to gasp a little before he swallowed this, but then he saw the beauty of it, and was consumed with laughter.

  Teevens had forwarded the necessary cheque and the credit for the outstanding account, so Hugo Fauntley’s worries in that direction had disappeared.

  Now for Jonathan Didcotte.

  Mannering reached the Mendor Club at half-past two on that warm spring day in late April. A stalwart instructor at the gymnasium – Mendor’s catered for most things – was an old friend of Mannering’s.

  ‘And how are you today, sir?’

  ‘That’s a good habit of yours, Willis,’ smiled the Baron. ‘I don’t know anyone else who can make a “you” sound like “the only man in the world”.’

  Willis, a giant whose sweater
and flannels clung tightly about his bulky curves, guffawed. He was a red-faced Cockney, with a Cockney’s wit and sense of camaraderie, and a Cockney’s love of praise.

  ‘Now then, sir, stop kiddin’! What’s it to be today?’

  ‘I’ll take you on for three rounds,’ offered the Baron, ‘but put a mask on first – I’m getting dangerous.’

  Willis’s guffaw echoed to the roof of the gymnasium, an annexe to Mendor’s Club with a glass roof and mesh-glassed walls. It was a spacious building with wall bars down two sides, a collection of horses and parallel bars at one end, a sanded square for jumping, and, through a narrow door, a smaller room for fencing, one of Mannering’s pet hobbies.

  But Mannering also liked to use his fists, for a rapier or swordstick was useless to the Baron, and as soon as he had changed they repaired to the ring, roped off at one end of the gymnasium.

  He wore only trunks; so did Willis. If the instructor’s muscles were like bunches of steel Mannering’s were like whipcord, rippling beneath his white skin as he moved. He shadow-boxed for a few moments, then started to mill with the instructor.

  He was trained to the minute, and he was two stone lighter than the other. He danced round the man, landing a blow with the gloves from time to time, taking a few when he mixed it, but smiling most of the time. Willis was breathing hard at the end of the third two-minute round.

  A small, perky assistant laughed. ‘I wouldn’t like to see Mr. Mannering ‘it yer, George.’

  ‘You go and drown yerself,’ said George between gasps. ‘You certingly are getting me whacked, sir. ‘Ow the ‘ell you do it I don’t know.’

  ‘Flattery isn’t your long suit.’ Mannering strolled to the wall bars, and spent a couple of minutes hauling himself up with one hand and two – like his antics in the tree outside Teevens’s house.

  ‘Is Laporte in today?’

  He mentioned the name of the chief fencing instructor, and George Willis shook his massive head.