Chapter Nine

THE BARON BEGINS

AT half past eleven Mannering was awakened by the telephone bell. It was Flick Leverson, with information. There was a man named Savoyan – or calling himself Savoyan – living at a house in North Gardens, Kensington. About him a queer story would best be told tête-à-tête.

‘I’ll come over,’ said Mannering. ‘Half past twelve to one.’

Leverson would not have suggested the meeting unless it was likely to be important, and as he bathed and shaved Mannering wondered whether he would be followed to Leverson’s Aldgate house. Drinking coffee and reading the morning papers – all carrying headlines of the second robbery from Collyn – there was a ring at the front door bell. Mannering dispensed with servants at the flat, for there were times when they would have been very much in the way. He wrapped his dressing-gown about him and opened the door to Bristow.

The two men stared at each other. Mannering, who felt no animosity, pretended to scowl.

‘What do you want now?’

‘I’d like a word with you,’ said Bristow, not entirely at his ease. ‘I’ve a letter for you, from the Assistant Commissioner.’

‘I suppose I’d better forgive you,’ said Mannering. ‘Come in, damn you. If you knew how close to breaking your neck I was last night, you wouldn’t come near me.’

‘We came pretty close to arresting you,’ said Bristow.

‘Not close enough,’ said Mannering. ‘I’ve decided not to like policemen in future, and the farther away they are the better. As for getting proof that I’m the Baron, you’ve never been wider of the mark. In my considered opinion,’ added Mannering, ‘the Baron wasn’t at James Street at eleven o’clock last night.’

‘You ought to know,’ Bristow said, but Mannering read the curiosity in his eyes as he handed over a letter in a typewritten envelope. Mannering opened it.

Assistant Commissioner’s Office,

New Scotland Yard,

London, S.W.1.

John Mannering Esq.,

88 Brook Street,

W.1.

Dear Sir,

The Assistant Commissioner asks me to tender you his apologies for the inconvenience caused you last night, and his assurances that the steps taken were, according to information he had received, in the best interests of justice. Later events show conclusively that this information was erroneous.

Yours faithfully, A. S. Lynch, Supt.

Mannering’s lips twitched.

‘Not what I would call handsome. I hope he’s been more generous with Miss Fauntley. It’ll do for now.’

‘You’re lucky to get as much,’ said Bristow.

‘Let’s forget it, and have some coffee,’ suggested Mannering, ‘and get down to cases. Sugar?’

‘Three lumps,’ said Bristow, taking cigarettes from his pocket. He sat back in his chair. ‘Mannering, there is a chance that you’re telling the truth, and didn’t take the Chentz stones.’

‘Nice of you,’ murmured Mannering.

‘Once and for all – did you take them?’

‘No, Bill. I don’t make a habit of …’

‘If you didn’t, then someone pretending to be you did.’

‘Oh, no,’ said Mannering. ‘I can’t allow that. Someone pretending to be the Baron, perhaps.’

Bristow swallowed hard.

‘What do you know about it?’

‘Haven’t you heard of my misadventure in Paris?’

‘Yes. Was it true?’

‘To the last detail.’

‘So there is someone else calling himself the Baron?’ Bristow’s eyes showed rising excitement.

‘If I were the Baron,’ said Mannering, ‘I would be feeling extremely annoyed. After all, it’s his trade-mark, won by the sweat of his brow and not without danger. Then someone coolly comes along, takes his name, uses his fame, and …’

‘Is that a fact?’

‘It wouldn’t surprise me.’

Bristow finished his coffee.

‘Until the Chentz diamonds were stolen last night, I didn’t think these jobs looked like the Baron. Who is it?’

‘My dear Bill, why should I know?’

‘Have you any idea?’

‘Not being in the Baron’s confidence, I’m not even interested.’

‘Take my advice,’ said Bristow slowly, ‘and don’t try to find this fellow yourself. You could find yourself arraigned for earlier offences if you aren’t careful.’

‘It’s a touching moment,’ admitted Mannering, a tinge of mockery in his voice. ‘Don’t worry about me, I’ll look after myself when you’re breeding chickens, or whatever a detective does in his retirement.’

Ten minutes afterwards Bristow left, while Mannering dressed, and took a cab to Charing Cross underground station. As far as he could judge he was not followed. The fact that the police were now inclined to the theory that the Baron was not busy would be an advantage. He could not grumble at the way things were working out, but he was worried about Lord Collyn and his son.

Leverson was a man nearing sixty, grey-haired, well-dressed, and with the sleeve of his right arm hanging empty – the result of a war wound.

Mannering had liked Leverson from the moment of meeting the fence, and he had quickly proved that Leverson’s reputation for square dealing was justified. Leverson deliberately broke the law, was a fine judge of precious stones, and collected antiques. He had spent most of his life as a receiver, and except for one short spell in prison when he had been shopped by a thief, he had escaped conviction. The police knew of but could not prove his activities.

A simple but admirably cooked luncheon, prepared by Janet, a neat prepossessing woman of twenty-five or so, who worshipped Leverson and had once saved Mannering from being caught red-handed with stolen jewels, was followed by coffee taken in Leverson’s oldy-worldy sitting-room. The house in Wine Street was full of brica-brac and genuine antiques, all acquired honestly.

‘Well, now,’ Leverson said, ‘this man Savoyan. Charlie Sloe was able to help me.’

‘Who is Charlie?’

‘He’s a confidence man who does burglary on the side, and is useful with a safe. But he prefers earning money at the nightclubs. It’s safer, and he likes bright lights.’ Leverson followed with a word picture of the confidence-man-cum-thief, a rare mixture for the underworld, and went on: ‘Charlie used to work the Continent, and met Savoyan in Paris about ten years ago.’

‘Paris,’ murmured Mannering.

‘Does that suggest anything?’

‘It might.’

‘Savoyan was poor in those days, and would crack a safe for a hundred francs, but he opened one too many. He spent eighteen months in La Rochelle, and Charlie heard no more about him until he saw him at the Heyday, three weeks ago. Charlie tried to presume on the old acquaintance, but Savoyan cold-shouldered him. Most people would prefer not to know Charlie! Apparently Savoyan had been known as Cartier, was reputed half French and half English, and admittedly clever with a lock. Does it sound like your man?’

‘So much like him that I’m going to pay him a visit,’ said Mannering decisively.

‘Unofficially?’

‘As the Baron,’ admitted Mannering, and Leverson knew that it was useless to advise him to be careful.

Mannering spent half an hour in North Gardens that afternoon, surveying the house, and he was pleased to see the half-acre of ground on which it was built, and the trees encircling it. The house itself stood some thirty yards back from a quiet, residential road, and at the end of the garden was a narrow tradesman’s alley, which would be useful if he needed to make a getaway. From the outside, at least, 7 North Gardens was vulnerable.

The downstairs windows that he could see were close to the ground, and as far as he could discover they had no special shutters. Satisfied on that point he telephoned Leverson from a call-box. Leverson promised to send a man to No. 7, to make a closer inspection.

‘I’ll have a report by six o’clock. Is that all right?’

‘I’ll be at the flat,’ Mannering promised.

When Mannering reached Brook Street it was ten minutes to four. He took the telephone thoughtfully, and dialled Lorna’s studio number; as he did so he was conscious of misgivings about the wisdom of the call. He had never hesitated before, but Lorna’s failure to ring through that morning was unusual, even worrying. He recalled her long silence after he had met her in Paris, read into her later talk a reluctance he could not explain. The day spent together in the country seemed a long way off, and as he heard the brrr-brrr at the other end of the line he wondered whether it had been completely successful.

Was Lorna worried about something not directly connected with the Baron?

She had backed him up splendidly at Great Marlborough Street and the flat, but …

He dialled again, but no answer came, then tried the Portland Place house. Yes, a maid said, Miss Lorna was in.

Mannering sat back in his chair, swinging one leg over his knee as he waited. The telephone was plugged into the lounge; he heard the strains of radio music coming gently across the wires; a burst of laughter. Lorna’s voice cut across it.

‘Hallo – oh, John. I’ve been meaning to call you.’

It was a false note, a disquieting one, but he forced himself not to think so.

‘Why?’ he asked lightly.

‘Well …’ She was finding it difficult to talk easily, there seemed to be a rift in their usual intimacy. ‘Did you have your letter?’

‘Bristow brought it in person. Are your outraged senses of justice and right satisfied?’

‘Don’t be an idiot.’ Her voice lowered. ‘It was very close, wasn’t it, for both of us?’

‘I wasn’t at Collyn’s place, and I don’t believe Bristow can prove I was where I wasn’t when he’s spent three years trying to prove I’ve been where I was. Did it worry you?’

‘Not exactly,’ Lorna said. ‘John, you’re not working, are you?’

Mannering’s fingers tightened about the telephone, for some seconds he did not answer.

Lorna said: ‘Are you there?’

‘I was recovering,’ said Mannering grimly. ‘Was it seriously intended?’

‘I’m sorry, darling, but I had to make sure. What’s happening now?’

‘A period of rest,’ said Mannering, trying to stifle his uneasiness. ‘I’m going on a foraging expedition tonight.’

‘Is it wise?’

‘I don’t like the idea of these gentlemen running round loose.’

‘Of course you’ve got to find them.’ Lorna sounded dubious, and Mannering felt his pulse hammering; he was out of tune with Lorna. ‘Be careful.’

‘Never more so,’ he assured her, lightly. ‘What will you be doing? The high-spots?’

‘I may go out for an hour or two,’ she said. ‘If you’re not going to want me.’

‘Good Lord, no! Live fast while you can!’ He infused a note of laughter into the words, they chatted for a few minutes, and he rang off. He reminded himself that for the first time since they had met she was not making a point of being at hand when he might need her.

He was in a brittle frame of mind when he lifted the receiver again, and called Collyn’s house. A clear, attractive feminine voice answered him. Lord Collyn was out.

‘Mr. Gerald will do, if he’s available.’

‘He—he hasn’t been home today. Who is that please?’

‘Mannering,’ said Mannering, and he sensed the reluctance of the girl at the other end to leave it at that. He knew Brenda slightly, but he doubted whether her father had taken her into his confidence.

Just after six o’clock, Leverson rang. Speaking guardedly in case the line was tapped, he assured Mannering that the ‘place had been surveyed’ and there was nothing of importance to report. In other words, 7 North Gardens offered an excellent chance for unlawful entry.

And the Baron prepared.

For years Mannering had owned a house in Barnes where, as Mr. James L. Miller, he had lived occasionally, purporting to be a travelling representative, and supporting a middle-aged housekeeper. The police had come to suspect Mr. Miller, and Mannering had adopted a different disguise, and taken a 99-years lease of a house on the edge of Streatham Common.

When he was working, moreover, he rented two furnished flats, both within reasonable distance of Brook Street, and with those three ports of call he was able to play a reasonably safe game against the police. At half past ten that night he took leave of the Fauntleys, went by cab to Piccadilly. As far as he could see Bristow was keeping to the rules, and not having him followed. But he felt dissatisfied. Bristow suspected the truth, and would expect Mannering to fight against his impersonation.

He slipped into the Corner House at Coventry Street, went out by the Rupert Street entrance, and hurried to Leicester Square. There he hired another cab, instructing the driver to go slowly along Coventry Street.

Opposite the Corner House, apparently deep in an evening paper was a nondescript-looking man dressed in navy blue. Every few seconds he looked over the top of his paper, and Mannering recognised him. His name was Moss, one of Bristow’s best trailers.

‘All right, William,’ said the Baron to himself, and made sure that Moss did not follow the cab. He alighted at Lower Regent Street, hurried to the roundabout beneath the Circus, finally convinced himself that no one was on his heels, and took the tube to Russell Square.

On his return from Paris he had rented a flat on the first floor of a small block near the Square, and had deposited a suitcase of necessary clothes and tools. The flat was in Brythe Street, and Brythe Street that night was deserted. Clouds were scudding, and there was rain in the air; even for early May it was cold.

Mannering went to the first floor by lift, passed no one on the way to Flat 40, and let himself in. Nothing had been touched since he had deposited the bags, and he took off coat, vest, and shirt, and sat in front of the dressing-table mirror. From one of the bags he took a complete theatrical make-up outfit, and for three-quarters of an hour he worked silently, slowly at first, because it was some time since he had used a disguise, and he wanted to take no risks.

By degrees the brown tan of John Mannering disappeared, and was superseded by a sallow, unhealthy complexion made worse, if that were possible, by drooping lines of discontent at the mouth and nose. Greasepaint beneath the eyes, and carefully drawn crows’ feet gave an air of dissipation to the strange face that looked back at Mannering. On his right ear he painted a brown mole, before paying attention to his moustache and, with spirit gum and two strips of hair the colour of his own, made it thick and bushy instead of a narrow line of black.

From the tin box on the dressing-table he took a thin rubber tooth-covering, slipped it carefully over his bottom teeth, and worked it down thoroughly. He repeated the task with a cover for the top teeth, and so skilfully had they been modelled that he appeared to possess a different set of teeth, yellow, stained in the crevices with nicotine, and badly shaped. Then he fitted into his cheeks two small pads, which made his cheeks look fuller, and helped the general face effect.

‘Good morning, Jonathan,’ said the Baron conversationally. ‘A happy debut.’

For as Mr. Jonathan Mellor he had taken the flat, and as Mellor he hoped to work until this affair was over. At the Streatham house and a flat in Westminster he had duplicate sets of make-up, and duplicate suits, made by an East End tailor, a friend of Flick Leverson’s who asked no questions. Mannering put a suit on. It was well-cut but a trifle exaggerated at the waist, not becoming a man of the stoutness that Mr. Mellor proved to have, for Mannering padded his waistband, and the vest of his dark-grey suit was also padded. The set of the neck was deliberately made to give sloping shoulders and to create the impression of a short neck, which he emphasised by a deeper collar than fashion decreed.

In and out of his mind flashed fragments of the conversation with Lorna; he alternated between conviction that he had been too jumpy and gloomy reflection on the possibility that she disbelieved him.

He opened the third case, and from it took a waist-band, slotted and filled with a number of small tools. It was the most comprehensive cracksman equipage possible without heavier stuff, such as a blower or a cutter, or a heavy jemmy. His jemmy was small, and made in sections of the highest tensile steel. In addition, he put in his pocket a blue scarf to use as a mask, with slits for the mouth and nose, a gas-pistol which he charged with a strong ether-gas, and a wash-leather bag containing a chloroform-soaked pad. The pocket was built in the back of his coat and, because of the waist-line, nothing appeared to bulge.

A dark-blue mackintosh of the roll-up type followed, and he changed into rubber-soled shoes. In the pocket of the mackintosh was a pair of dark-blue cotton gloves.

At twelve o’clock Mannering left Brythe Street, and walked rapidly to the dwindling crowds of the streets towards the tube. There he booked to Victoria, but in fact alighted at St. James’s Park and walked towards Kensington. It was nearly a quarter to one when he reached the High Street, only a few people walked the streets – here and there he heard the regular plod of the patrol policeman – sometimes a late cab would slow up hopefully.

Mannering looked at none of them, but turned down North Gardens. Three of the houses in the road showed lights, and outside two houses were cars.

There were no lights in Number 7.

Lorna, Gerald Collyn, everything beyond the task of entering the house went from his mind; when the Baron was busy he was wholly single-minded.

He went through the front gates of the small carriageway, a glance right and left convincing him that he was unobserved. As he stepped on to the grass and went towards the wide windows, hidden from the street lamps by tall trees, a queer metamorphosis seemed to effect Mannering. He walked softly, and as his dark-clad figure merged into the shadows he seemed part of the night.

With the facial disguise he needed the mask only for effect, and he did not put it on when he reached the window which, he believed, would afford him easiest access. It was large enough to climb through, but half hidden from the garden by shrubs, and a hole in its glass would not be noticed easily.

He took a small diamond cutter from his waist-band, and a small rubber cup with a short stem. From the moment he started work he became the Baron, not Mannering. He worked with a quick, nerveless energy, pausing every few minutes to make sure there was no sound nearby.

The sharp squeal of the diamond cutter on the glass came clearly. He made nine-tenths of a circular cut near the catch of the window, and stuck the rubber cup on it, after damping it. Then, no sound coming to suggest that he had been heard, he finished the cut and pulled steadily at the stem of the cup, which he had held in his left hand.

A circular piece of glass, nearly a foot in diameter, came away without a sound.

The Baron rested it softly on the grass and then took a small electric torch from his pocket. It was one of the most dangerous moments, if the pencil of light was seen from the street it might attract attention. He pressed the switch. The light shot out, towards the sides of the window, and as he moved it round he saw the thin piece of wire running down one side.

So Savoyan had the house wired up with a burglar alarm.

The Baron took a small pair of wire-cutters from his pocket.

He was stretching his arm through the hole to get at the wire when he heard the car come along North Gardens, its engine slowing down. In a flash he withdrew his arm, and crouched below the bushes; and as he did so the headlights of a car, switched on to negotiate the carriageway gates, shone vividly against the windows.