Last Laugh for the Baron Read online

  Another young couple were at the end of the street, in a Volkswagen. Mannering turned past these, and walked along King’s Road. The sooner he could get a taxi – the thought was hardly in his mind before one turned out of a side street, its sign alight. He hailed it and said in a voice no one would have recognised as his: “Belmont Street, please.”

  Soon he was approaching the garage where he had left Bruce Danizon. He unlocked the padlock, and found Danizon still huddled up in the rear of the car. He opened the door, made sure that the youth was still unconscious yet breathing evenly, then half-dragged and half-carried him out, unlocked the car boot, and hoisted him in. There was comfortable room. He went to the driving seat and turned the key in the ignition: the motor turned sluggishly at first but was soon roaring.

  Half-an-hour after he had left Lorna, he drew up outside Frewin’s house in Truscott Square, a Georgian Square still tranquil with its fenced-off garden of trees and shrubs and well-kept grass, as yet unspoiled by the modern mania for change. Mannering went up three steps to the pillared portico, and rang the bell. There was no answer. He rang again, and at last an elderly man answered.

  “Good evening, sir.”

  “Is Mr. Eric in, please?”

  “If you will step inside, sir, I will find out. May I take your name?”

  “Larraby,” Mannering answered without hesitation. “He’ll know the name.”

  He stepped into a rather shabby hall, where the carpet was threadbare and the paintings on the wall, as well as the old furniture, looked quiet and unspectacular. Few would have dreamt that each piece was a rare antique, each picture of great value.

  The elderly man disappeared through a doorway on the right, opposite the stairs. The sound of a radio or television commentary filled the hallway as the door opened; above it came the sound of a young man’s voice.

  “Larraby? . . . All right, Baker, I won’t need you.”

  A few moments later, Eric Frewin, a pleasant-looking, fair-haired youth, appeared in the hall, a slender, pale-faced girl behind him.

  “No need to come, Maria,” Eric said, and she stayed in the doorway while the youth came forward. “Mr. Larraby?”

  “Yes,” Mannering said in that unfamiliar voice. “I don’t think we have met, sir.”

  “Don’t you work at Quinns, for John Mannering?”

  “That’s right, sir,” Mannering said. “I wonder if you could spare me a moment?” He looked deliberately past Frewin to the girl. “Did I hear you call the young lady Maria, sir?”

  “Yes – Miss Maria Rocco,” said Eric.

  “Then what I have to say will greatly interest her, also,” said Mannering. “If you could both spare me ten minutes I would be grateful.”

  “What is this about?” demanded Eric.

  “A matter which very directly affects the father of each of you,” Mannering stated.

  Eric stared sharply for a moment, then led the way into a large, untidy room, one wall lined from floor to ceiling with tightly-filled bookshelves, a big coloured television set in one corner, a sofa and two easy chairs in front of it.

  Maria moved swiftly to the television and switched off a picture of a golfer about to drive from the tee.

  “My father?” she demanded. “What has he done?”

  Her large dark eyes looked enormous in her pale face.

  “Mr. Mannering knows, I do not,” said ‘Larraby’. “But I do know that both Sir Stanton and Mr. Rocco are likely to be in serious trouble with the police unless they are able to refute the charges.”

  “This sounds like a rigmarole of nonsense to me,” Eric said sharply. “Where is Mannering? Why didn’t he come himself?”

  “He is, at the moment, involved at the shop, sir – at Quinns – and cannot get away. But I know he is greatly distressed. Your father left the house very hurriedly a short while ago, and—”

  “I’ll soon find out if that’s true,” said Eric. He strode out of the room, calling: “Baker! Is my father . . . ?” His voice faded.

  Maria Rocco stood looking intently at Mannering,

  “Have—have you any idea what this is about?” she asked.

  “Only that there is some conspiracy which has to do with your father’s collection and Sir Stanton’s. Mr. Mannering would have come himself, if—”

  Eric hurried back into the room.

  “He did go out,” he said. “How did you know?”

  “Mr. Mannering told me, sir. If you could possibly come to the shop – I have a car outside – it would save a lot of time. I’ve never known Mr. Mannering so worried. I really haven’t.”

  “Eric, we had better go,” Maria urged. “We have time.”

  “How long will it take?” demanded Eric.

  “I feel sure you will be back within the hour, sir,” replied Mannering.

  He did not plead again and there was no need, for both youth and girl moved towards the hall. Two minutes later they were sitting together in the back of the car, with Mannering at the wheel.

  Fifteen minutes later they were outside the back entrance to Quinns, and Larraby was opening the door. Mannering stood aside for Eric and Maria to enter, went in after them, closed the door, locked it, and then took the automatic out of his pocket.

  “Do exactly as I tell you,” he said in his normal voice. “Then you won’t get hurt.”

  The girl cried out.

  Eric Frewin drew back, glaring, stared at the gun and raised his hand as if to try to knock it aside. Mannering fired, once, aiming wide. The report sounded very loud in the tiny hall and Eric drew in a hissing breath.

  “What—what the devil is going on?” he demanded.

  “That’s what I’m going to find out,” Mannering said. “Open the strong-room door, Josh.”

  “Josh!” exclaimed Eric. “That’s Larraby’s name. Who—”

  “Let’s say we’re brothers,” Mannering said, while Larraby, guessing what had happened, smiled to himself with deep satisfaction and led the way into Mannering’s office, where the strong-room entrance was already open.

  12

  THE SECOND KIDNAPPING

  “My God!” breathed Eric Frewin. “You’ll pay for this!”

  “Think so?” asked Mannering mildly. “You must talk it over with your friends when they come and join you.”

  Maria Rocco managed to speak with praiseworthy calm, although her hands were tightly clenched and there could be no doubt of her fear.

  “What—what are you trying to do? Why have you brought us here?”

  “I am trying to find out the truth about a Mr. Bernard Yenn. I want to know where Mannering is involved, and I want to know what your parents have been up to,” said Mannering. He crowded them down into the first room, then into the second. “Don’t move,” he warned, and backed away, pressing the door control. Eric made a half-hearted attempt to push through the gap as the door closed, but soon thought better of it.

  Mannering said almost light-heartedly: “Two in one, Josh – and Bruce Danizon is outside. I’ll have him here in a couple of jiffs.” He made for the steps leading to his office, saying: “I called myself Larraby and said that Mannering wanted to see them.”

  “Very astute, sir,” murmured Larraby.

  Believe it or not, mused Mannering, as he stepped out into Hart Row, Josh looks younger.

  No one was in Hart Row.

  He opened the boot of the old car and saw Danizon’s eyes open, dazedly. He helped the youth out and supported him into the building, then into the office, and half-pushed, half-dragged him down the stairs. He was still dazed from the drug. Mannering left him close to the wall separating the first and second rooms, pressed the control in the ceiling, and as the door began to open, called: “Look after your friend.”

  He was back in the office wit
h the main entrance sealed before they could have realised who their ‘friend’ was. Larraby was sitting on the side of the bow-fronted desk.

  “An excellent start,” he remarked. “I’m no longer so apprehensive, sir.”

  “Josh, we mustn’t let it fool us,” Mannering said. “The other three aren’t likely to be so easy. Are you all right?”

  “I am very much enjoying the escapade,” Larraby assured him.

  Mannering laughed without much humour, and went out; Larraby would press the electric control button which made the door impregnable. It was now a little after eight-thirty and the first faint shadows of evening were falling over London, creating an early dusk. A few lights showed, cars passed along Old Bond Street, but none turned into Hart Row, and there was no sign of anyone watching.

  Mannering got into the car and drove away.

  As he turned the corner he was thinking that someone had known the moment that Annabel Kitt had arrived, and had been lying in wait for her. Add this fact to the equally significant one that no one was visible in Hart Row, but that Quinns could not be overlooked from anywhere else, and one thing screamed at him.

  The shop and all that went on there was being watched from some building in Hart Row.

  Mannering turned into a side street and parked at one of a dozen empty meters; on Saturday evening this part of London was virtually deserted. He walked back to Hart Row, seeing a policeman talking to a sergeant further along, near Savile Row. That reminded him vividly of Gordon. Were these two men keeping a special watch on Quinns?

  Passing the end of Hart Row, he glanced along it as he did so.

  Two young men were crossing from one of the other shops and heading for Quinns. Mannering saw the doorway they came from – the side door of the firm of carpet importers with the name of Pandit & Co. Waiting a moment, he saw them go to the end of Hart Row and turn towards the back entrance, where they disappeared from view. Had the two policemen not been within sight he would have gone after them, but that would be asking for trouble. He quickened his pace and beckoned the policemen, and immediately the sergeant moved towards him. He was a man Mannering knew well and who had seen Mannering face to face a hundred times.

  “Is anything the matter, sir?”

  “I—ah—yes,” Mannering said in his assumed voice. “I saw two men go to the back of a shop there. They tried the front door first and then disappeared round the back. Of course it might be nothing, but I thought I should tell you.”

  “We’ll soon make sure, sir.” The sergeant took out his walkie-talkie radio, pulled up the mast, and spoke very quickly: “Suspected break-in at a shop in Hart Row, request mobile patrol at once.” By the time he had finished, the constable, using raking strides, had drawn level.

  “Hart Row,” the sergeant said.

  “Quinns?”

  “Could be. Wait there, sir, please.”

  The two men crossed the road with startling speed, and Mannering saw them pause and peer into Quinns, then saw them turn the corner. Almost at once there was a shrill police whistle and the two youths came pelting back on their tracks.

  Then Mannering saw that the side door of Pandit’s was open and a square of light showed against the gathering dusk. The two youths raced towards it, but the next moment the younger policeman appeared at the corner, and Mannering saw that he was going to make a flying tackle.

  Nearing the doorway, the fugitives veered towards it, but before they could reach it the door closed and the light was shut off. For one vital second the fugitives faltered, and the young policeman, launching himself forward, caught one of them by the ankles, bringing him crashing down. The other youth spun round, to see what had happened to his companion, but on that instant a siren wailed nearby and Mannering saw a police car racing down from Oxford Street. The second youth took to his heels. He turned away from the car, and towards Mannering. That was his mistake.

  As he stumbled past, Mannering simply put out a leg, and brought him down. The police car, slowing, was now only a few yards away. The passenger door opened and a patrolman sprang out. As if by magic, people appeared, from side streets, shops and hotels. Surprisingly quickly there was a small crowd.

  It was comparatively easy, in the confusion, for Mannering, whom no one recognised, to slip away. The first thing he did was to go into a telephone kiosk and call Lorna. There had been no telephone calls and no visitors, she told him, but the youth whom Mannering had suspected to be watching the flat was still outside.

  “Yes, he’s still there. By the way, Sir Stanton was very put out, darling.”

  “No doubt. His son was even more put out.”

  “You’ve got him?” cried Lorna.

  “With Maria Rocco and Bruce Danizon,” Mannering said with satisfaction. “Do something for me, sweet.”

  “Of course.”

  “While I go and get a meal, telephone Frank Bennett, Esmeralda Devon and Charles Clawson junior,” said Mannering. “Find out where they’re likely to be. I’ll call back in half-an-hour.”

  “John, you must have a real meal, and half-an-hour—”

  “Is plenty,” Mannering assured her. “If any of the trio is out of town try to find out exactly where they are.”

  “I will,” said Lorna, resignedly.

  In Oxford Street Mannering went into a crowded coffee-bar-cum-café, had a reasonable steak and a slice of apple tart and coffee, served quickly by a slim, mini-skirted waitress, whose long, tangled lashes reminded him too vividly of Annabel Kitt. It was still hard to believe that the girl had been so brutally run down. What would make a man so ruthless? What was Yenn trying to do? And how could he persuade so many young people to work for him? As he sipped a second cup of coffee, Mannering gave more attention to this aspect: how could Yenn or any man make youngsters behave as these were behaving?

  Was it hypnosis?

  Mannering found himself taking this almost for granted, and although he warned himself against it, the virtual certainty persisted.

  How many other youths would do what Yenn ordered? How many others would kill? The question chilled him, and he gave an involuntary shudder as he stood up. Soon, in another telephone kiosk, he called Lorna again.

  “Charles Clawson is at Brighton, but he’ll be back tomorrow afternoon,” she told him. “Esmeralda Devon is spending the weekend with her mother – you know the Devons were divorced, don’t you? – in Hampstead, at 5, Kimble Lane. And Frank Bennett is spending tomorrow at Ashworth Golf Course. He will also be back home by three o’clock tomorrow afternoon,” Lorna added. “Isn’t that rather early for a weekend?”

  “Yes,” answered Mannering. “And two of them are coming back early. Lorna, my sweet.”

  “Yes?”

  “If you feel the slightest bit worried, telephone Bristow. He’ll arrange special protection.”

  “I’d almost forgotten he is still an active policeman,” Lorna said. “All right, darling, I will if I feel worried. I wonder how he is?”

  At that moment William Bristow was sitting alone in the room where he had received Mannering, looking at an indifferent television play. But his mind was elsewhere. For a while Mannering had raised his spirits, but now he was beginning to wonder whether he should have involved a man who was, after all, his friend.

  The telephone bell rang, and he stretched one hand out for the instrument and the other to lower the volume of the set.

  “This is Bristow.”

  “Superintendent,” a man said in a deep, almost vibrant voice, “two young men have been arrested for walking past the shop of your friend Mannering. I want them released. And if they aren’t—” There was a pause, a curious laugh, and then the man went on: “You won’t have any chance at all of saving your reputation. I can prove that you did what you shouldn’t have done.”

  There was another pause. Then came the sou
nd of deep, vibrant, menacing laughter.

  Bristow put down the receiver, and cut off the television sound. He felt suddenly very cold. For a few moments he sat motionless, looking at the figures moving on the screen and mouthing words he could not hear. He was still motionless when the telephone bell rang again.

  He stared at it, almost too apprehensive to answer. Then with a rough: “What the devil is the matter with me?” he snatched it up. But his whole body was tense as he prepared himself for the same voice, the same sinister laughter.

  “Bristow,” he said.

  “Hallo, Bill.” Instantly, he recognised Gordon, now equal in rank and so able to be on Christian name terms, but a man with whom he had never been wholly at ease. “I’ve just heard that there was an attempt to break into Quinns tonight. I thought you’d like to know.”

  Bristow tried to react as he would have reacted before the shadow had fallen.

  “Has there, by Jove! Anyone caught?”

  “The two men who attempted it,” answered Gordon. “They were trying to get into one of the windows, and were both picked up and charged.” There was a curious tone in Gordon’s voice, as if there were something else he wanted to say but didn’t know how. To fill in the gap, Bristow asked: “Have they got records?”

  “That’s the queer thing about it,” Gordon replied. “One is Lord Hindlesham’s son, and the other the son of a Member of Parliament. Both families have excellent reputations. It doesn’t make sense.”

  “Have you talked to Mannering?” asked Bristow.

  “I thought you would like to.”

  “I would,” growled Bristow. “I’ll call him. What’s happening to the prisoners?”

  “They’re being held overnight and will appear in court in the morning – that’s if their parents don’t pull every string from the Home Office to Buckingham Palace to get them released. They pretend they were just skylarking, but according to the reports they acted like young demons before they were arrested.”