Chapter Eleven

LONG DISTANCE

THE Baron let the bell ring twice before he picked the automatic up in his left hand, and drew the telephone towards him with his right. Not for a moment did his gaze move from Savoyan’s face.

‘Keep very quiet,’ he said, and lifted the receiver.

Savoyan made no attempt to move. Mannering heard the voice of the girl operator.

‘Bayswater two-one-three-five-six?’

‘Yes.’

‘Mr. Savoyan?’

‘Yes.’ With each word Mannering’s voice sounded like Savoyan’s, held the same note of suavity that he had heard when the man had talked to Chloe Renkle.

‘Hold on, please, for a personal call from Boulogne.’

‘Thank you.’

The Baron stared at Savoyan, and saw the beads of sweat on the man’s forehead, on his upper lip. Savoyan had obviously been expecting the call, and was afraid of what the Baron would hear. To emphasise his advantage the Baron moved the gun a little, while the ear-piece crackled as the call came through. He did not recognise the voice, speaking in broken English.

‘Zat you, Savoyan?’

‘Yes.’ He was determined to speak as little as he could, to better the chance of being taken for Savoyan. Before he had gained his notoriety as the Baron he had taken an intensive course of voice training. He could speak several languages with the intonation of a native, and mimicry came easily. It might have been Savoyan speaking.

‘Good. You ‘ave got it?’

‘The Chentz …’

‘No names, you fool, ‘ow often do I need to tell you to ‘ave ze care!’ The other’s anger made Mannering believe that the deception was going well. ‘You will send them at vonce to Fienne.’

‘Yes, of course.’

‘So. Do not vait zis time. And lissen, Savoyan, send all you have take. The payment vill be after, not before. Understan’?’

‘Yes, I won’t fail.’

‘You vill be vise,’ said the man at the other end of the wire. And on the words, particularly because of the note of menace in them, Mannering recognised the voice. He was startled, so much that his grip on the gun relaxed. Corbertes!

‘I …’ he began.

But Savoyan had jumped. He flung his cigarette-case first, and it knocked the automatic out of Mannering’s hand. Mannering pushed his chair back, dodged a blow from Savoyan’s right, and the telephone went clattering to the ground. Savoyan was berserk. He leapt across the desk, eyes blazing, fists working like flails while the telephone was crackling violently, and Mannering knew that Corbertes had been warned.

He faced a different opponent from the Savoyan of ten minutes before; the man’s rage doubled his strength while the Baron had allowed himself to be taken unawares. A clenched fist caught him on the side of the face, his head rang as he sidestepped. Savoyan staggered, but swung round savagely and kicked at his stomach.

The kick caught Mannering on the knees, causing excruciating pain. His right leg went numb from thigh to ankle, and he slipped. There was murder in Savoyan’s eyes as he leapt for the gun which had fallen close to Mannering.

Mannering’s hand reached it a split second before Savoyan’s, whose leap had sent the telephone still farther away. Steely fingers clutched at Mannering’s wrist, others at his neck; he felt his breath tightening. Nails stabbed into his wrist, causing a sharp pain that made him ease his grip on the gun.

His head was throbbing, he knew Savoyan had the upper hand for the moment. The man was sprawled across him, forcing the wind out of his lungs. Mannering regained his hold on the gun, trying to get his throat clear. He failed, and saw Savoyan’s distorted face above him. The pressure increased, and he knew despair.

He let his muscles relax.

There was a bare chance that Savoyan would fall for this; waiting, he knew the extremes of mental agony. Savoyan’s breath was hot on his face; as the man plucked at the gun there was momentary easing of the pressure at his neck. He punched at Savoyan’s ribs, a short-arm jab that sent the other off his balance, forced him to lose hold of the gun. Mannering heaved himself up; Savoyan fell, heavily.

Mannering struck savagely and connected with the vital nerve centre of Savoyan’s jaw. Savoyan staggered, then fell unconscious across the Baron.

Soon, Mannering moved. But for a drumming in his ears and a pain at his right knee he was himself again as he forced Savoyan off, stood up, and leaned against the desk. There was a sharp brrr-brrr coming from the telephone, and he stepped to it quickly, suddenly aware of the danger that it presented.

‘Hallo—yes, hallo?’

The operator sounded puzzled.

‘I thought I heard …’

‘I’m afraid I dropped the phone,’ said Mannering apologetically. ‘I’d finished with the Paris call. There’s no need for me to worry you further.’

‘I see, sir.’

Mannering looked about the sparsely furnished study, found whisky in a deep drawer in the desk, and took a peg neat. Two minutes of complete relaxation while the whisky worked through him steadied him.

He had one regret: Corbertes might have been led into a trap, but had been warned. Mannering had established the fact of an alliance between Savoyan and the Frenchman. He had to admit there was an Anglo-French conspiracy to impersonate the Baron!

He made sure that the safe was empty, and was about to look through the notebook when Savoyan stirred. Instead, he glanced at the addresses on the loose sheets. They made him widen his eyes, for they were all of men in London or the Home Counties whom he knew to be rich. Two specialised in the collection of precious stones.

Mannering replaced the loose sheets, and examined the jewels.

Not knowing the nature of those that had been stolen, he could not be sure whose they were, except for the Chentz diamonds, which were in his pocket. The glance he had taken while Savoyan had held them had been sufficient to identify them. They were not large – the biggest of the nine stones was no more than twenty-five carats – but they had a rose tint that made them famous. There was history, legend, and wealth in the small necklace. Mannering knew that Collyn had obtained them from the Russian Court, before the final crumbling of the Tsarist regime.

Savoyan groaned, and his legs moved.

Mannering replaced the diamonds, took a glass of whisky, and bent over the man. The first bite of the spirit made Savoyan gasp, some trickled down his chin to his collar. His eyes flickered, and when he saw that masked figure above him, he groaned. Mannering forced another dram between his lips, then helped him to a chair. On his chin was a swelling red patch, where Mannering had hit him.

Mannering broke the silence.

‘So you have telephone conversations with Corbertes, do you?’

‘You—you seem to know.’ Savoyan straightened his tie, and pushed his hands through his hair, trying to stop them from shaking. ‘What are you going to do?’

‘Before we were interrupted,’ said Mannering, ‘we were talking about your employers. We’ll proceed from there.’

‘I can’t tell you—anything.’

‘Not even under threat of the police?’

‘No, I tell you! I act for a M’sieu Corbertes …’

‘It sounds feasible, but I’m not convinced,’ said the Baron. ‘Supposing you give me a little voluntary information? What made you start this?’

He recognised that Savoyan had reached the limit of his resistance, and he made a disturbing discovery. Savoyan was afraid of the influence of Corbertes. The story, which Savoyan told without embellishments, had the ring of truth. He admitted serving a three years’ sentence in the prison of La Rochelle for jewel robbery, under the name of Cartier. For some years he assured Mannering he had lived ‘honestly’, on the proceeds of the crime for which he had served the term. He had met Corbertes at a cabaret, Corbertes had offered him protection for certain services, and for some years he and the Frenchman had been working together.

Nearly six months before Corbertes had told him that in future he would use a blue mask and a gas-pistol. It had been some time before Savoyan had realised the significance of the impersonation. Then Corbertes had admitted that his idea was to commit daring burglaries under the guise of the Baron.

On the more important points, such as the number of men working for Corbertes, Savoyan was silent: Mannering felt sure that it was because he did not know. Obviously he was desperately afraid both of Corbertes and the police.

There was silence for some seconds after Savoyan had finished, while Mannering considered. At last he asked: ‘What about Gerald Collyn?’

‘I—I’m not going to hurt him!’

‘I think you’re right,’ admitted Mannering. ‘Exactly what did you want with him?’

‘I wanted the keys for Collyn’s place – the first time I went there I could only get the small jewels, and Corbertes wanted the Chentz diamonds …’

‘For a special client?’

‘He didn’t tell me! They were to be sent to …’

Savoyan broke off, as if afraid to tell too much, afraid of the vengeance of Corbertes. Every time he uttered the man’s name he seemed to cringe: and in view of the fate of Paul Rentu, that fear was understandable. But Corbertes had mentioned a name that might prove significant. Mannering tried it.

‘Fienne, isn’t it?’

‘My God! What don’t you know?’

‘That’s the second time you’ve asked the question.’ said Mannering. ‘Who is Fienne? Where can I find him?’

‘I don’t know! I shall have instructions from Corbertes where to send …’

‘Don’t lie to me! Where does he live?’

‘I don’t know!’ There was despair in the man’s manner.

‘Meaning that you daren’t tell me?’

‘Corbertes would know who squealed. Send for the police, do what you like, I’d rather spend ten years in Parkhurst than answer to Corbertes!’ There were tears in the man’s eyes, and Mannering felt sure he would get no more information.

He did not propose to send for the police yet. Savoyan was a safe-breaker; so was the Baron. The death of Rentu was at Corbertes’ door, Savoyan was not necessarily an accessory, and Mannering did not propose to send a man to the dock for crimes similar to his own.

He pushed the whisky towards Savoyan.

‘Take another drink,’ he said. ‘We’re going for a ride. Hurry!’

Savoyan hurried.

Mannering took off his mask as they reached the door, and he caught Savoyan’s furtive glance. Probably Savoyan would have an idea that he had seen the real Baron face to face, might even be congratulating himself on it.

Mannering kept his right hand in his pocket about the gun. If Savoyan made a break for safety Mannering knew he would not shoot, but it served as a curb, and Savoyan’s courage seemed to have died. Twenty minutes afterwards they entered the furnished flat in Westminster which the Baron had rented. Savoyan looked a pitiful, jaded relic of the suave, immaculate figure at Panelli’s.

‘You stay here for a while,’ said Mannering. ‘I’ll see you again after a talk with Chloe Renkle.’

Savoyan flinched. ‘I—listen, anything I said to her was a bluff. I didn’t mean …’

‘We’ll think about your motives afterwards,’ said the Baron sharply. ‘Get on the bed.’

He tied Savoyan hand and foot and, to make sure the man did not escape, bound a sheet round him as well as the bed. He forced a handkerchief into his mouth, and when he reached the door he looked over his shoulder. The sight of the man stretched there with terror in his eyes made him smile in a way that did not fit in with the gloomy exterior of Mr. Jonathan Mellor.

‘Sleep well,’ said the Baron.

Satisfaction with his progress was offset in some measure by the obvious strength of Corbertes’ organisation. How many cracksmen did the Frenchman have at his disposal for impersonating the Baron?

If he had many, he must feel convinced that none of them would be caught by the police. Once a ‘Baron’ was awaiting trial the strength of the gang’s position was weakened, he could not call on others for the masquerade, unless …

Sitting back in a taxi Mannering saw another possibility. Supposing Corbertes was prepared to lose a man occasionally, but by setting others to work, aimed to create the impression, in England and France, that the ‘Baron’ had always been a syndicate of cracksmen?

It was possible, for Corbertes lacked one essential piece of information: that the English police knew the Baron. So he could take the chance.

Mannering patted his pockets, felt the jewels he had taken from Savoyan, and reminded himself that while he carried them there was always danger from the police. Under the stress of that night’s work he had failed, for once, to get rid of the evidence quickly. But in his tool-kit he carried envelopes and cotton wool. In the shadows of the cab he put the haul inside the envelope, well padded it with wool, addressed it in somewhat shaky block capitals to Mr. Mellor, at Brythe Street, and tapped on the window. The cabby turned his head.

‘The nearest post office first,’ said Mannering.

He felt happier when the packet dropped into the post-box.

Chloe Renkle’s flat was off the Embankment, and he reached it fifteen minutes after leaving Savoyan; he had paid the driver off at Westminster Bridge. According to Savoyan Chloe lived at No. 93. The address-board in the hall of the block told him that it was on the fourth floor, and an automatic lift was on the ground floor.

But for two or three policemen and a few pedestrians he had seen no one on either journey, and it did not seriously occur to him that there was the possibility of danger. Nor did it seem likely that he would have any trouble in waking Chloe.

But four rings at her flat bell brought no response.

Mannering frowned.

When she had left Kensington she had been in a raging temper, and for the first time he considered the possibility that she might have defied Savoyan, and gone away out of danger. But Savoyan seemed to have been sure of the strength of his influence over her; it was no more than a surmise.

Mannering examined the lock.

It was a Yale, and while he could force it by driving it with a screwdriver, that would make too much noise; the residents of the other flats would be alarmed at once. He wanted to get in, but the prospect of going downstairs and trying to climb to the window was not attractive. Without a thorough survey of the block it would be impossible. He rang again, but although he could hear the bell, there was no sound of movement.

He scowled again; then his face relaxed.

‘What a damned fool I can be!’ As he muttered the words he took Savoyan’s key-case from his pocket, seeing the three differently cut Yale keys. The first one he tried would not open the door, but the second turned the lock.

The door opened.

There was no light inside, and Mannering did not switch one on until he had closed the door. On the threshold of the room he stood silently, listening for any sound. None came. The flat seemed empty. Frowning, he took his torch out, and shone it about the room. It was large, pleasantly furnished and untidy. By an easy chair was a half-empty box of chocolates, foil-wrappers were strewn about the floor. Near the chair was a slipper, red and dainty. One like it was by the wall.

An open door was opposite him.

Mannering tiptoed towards it, and as he drew near he fancied he could hear the light breathing of a man or woman. He reached it, and as he opened it the light from a street lamp filtered dimly through, and he could see the woman on the bed. On it, not in it. And tied to it!

Heart in his mouth, the Baron switched on the light. The woman – it was Chloe – blinked up at him in the glare, struggling at the cords which fastened her. Mannering smiled grimly as he thought of young Collyn.

He stepped forward quickly, taking a knife from his pocket, and cut the cords while pulling the handkerchief from Chloe’s mouth with his free hand. For some minutes she could not speak, but a weak whisky-and-soda helped her to recover, and the Baron spoke sharply, with an increasing sense of foreboding.

‘Where is Gerald Collyn?’

She stared, blankly at first.

‘Where is Collyn?’

‘I—I—they took him!’ she gasped. ‘They took him!’