Chapter Twenty

ENTER THE BARON

CHLOE kicked a slipper off, and it struck against the wall and flopped down. It was an indication of a filthy temper. Opposite her the Baron, no longer Mr. Mellor, but with proof enough for her that he was the Baron, eyed her narrowly.

‘The beastly swine!’ she stormed. ‘The boy, and then a kid like that! I could poison them!’

‘If you let yourself go like that, you won’t be a great help in finding them,’ the Baron said. ‘First find the house: then get into it. That’s if you’ll still play.’

Chloe glowered.

‘I’ll give every word of evidence I can against them, and if I have to go to prison for it – well, I’ll feel cleaner. You don’t mind lifting stuff, but when it comes to murder and kidnapping you draw the line. That’s the way I feel.’

‘You’ve heard nothing since that telephone call this morning, when Hawley told you to keep quiet?’

‘That’s right. He came through about half past nine. I know I was fast asleep.’

‘If you serve that prison sentence you were talking about you’ll get a lot of rude awakenings earlier in the day than that,’ said Mannering drily.

‘That’s my worry. Well, what do you want me to do?’

‘At the first word from them, call me.’ He had given her the Brook Street number, for although there was a risk that she would identify him as Mannering through it, he dared not lose time, and he had to take a chance. Not that he felt worried about Chloe: her anger against Hawley was too intense: almost vitriolic. ‘If you’ve got any reason to think that they’re watching you, let me know. You’ve realised,’ he added evenly, ‘that you may be in danger? They’ve probably associated the leakage with you.’

She shrugged.

‘I don’t think they’re that clever, but I’ll stand the chance,’ she frowned. ‘If you think they suspect we’re linked up, don’t you think they’ll be after you?’

‘I certainly do,’ said the Baron, smiling. ‘I believe they’re already spinning their web, but there’s one thing our spiders don’t know.’

‘What’s that?’

‘How much I know,’ said the Baron.

He left the St. John’s Wood flat by the door this time, but was not surprised to see the little, thin-faced man on the other side of Warne Street. He was glad that he had altered his disguise sufficiently to deceive anyone at first glance, and he was amused to think that Welch – for he remembered the name on the dossier – limped as he turned in his wake: it was a souvenir of the melée at Welling Hall.

Mannering decided to take a bus to Piccadilly, and he caught a glimpse of Welch as the man rushed to board the bus without getting too close on his quarry’s heels. On the top deck Mannering smoked and tried to work out the position to a nicety, while below Welch gasped for breath and cursed the Baron, or anyone who visited Chloe’s flat.

Welch had more reasons for cursing half an hour afterwards, for he was imbued with a fear of Hawley and Corbertes that was second to nothing in his miserable, frightened, and law-defying life. He had had instructions to follow any of Chloe’s callers home: and he lost the man at Piccadilly.

Sweating in advance, trying to decide whether he should simply fail to report or whether to brave the reception of failure, Welch wandered unhappily beneath Eros while Mannering went up a subway and walked sharply to Brook Street.

He felt well disposed towards Bristow, who had accepted his vague promise and had removed the ‘tails’. There was no one watching as he let himself into his flat. He removed all traces of the disguise, changed, and just after one o’clock went out, immaculate and debonair.

When the Hon. Peter Forsyth was in town he had a habit of lunching at the Elan, rarely alone. He was not alone that day, for Lorna was sitting opposite him, and to all intents and purposes she was enjoying the tête-è-tête as much as Forsyth. That large and genial-seeming man was at his best, and for the second time since he had started his ‘offensive’ at Biarritz, he brought the subject round to precious stones.

Mannering sat with his back to the other table, but he could see Lorna in an alcove mirror. The arrangement had been made before he had left the studio. Callini, head-waiter renowned, had been charmed to reserve the tables, and he was puzzled when Mannering sat alone. But philosophic. These Englishmen and love! Lorna had found Forsyth delighted to take her to luncheon. More, she found it almost impossible to credit that this large buffoon of a man, with his merry eyes and his effervescing joie de vivre, was what the Baron suspected.

Forsyth spread himself, but his insistence on jewels was in itself suspicious. He talked mostly of his own – Lorna knew he had a large collection – but here and there he put a question about the Fauntley strong-room that, now she was on the alert, seemed unmistakable in its implications.

She separated them from the welter of back-chat as she looked towards Mannering’s reflection in the mirror.

Did her father use a watchman? He relied on electric control, Forsyth supposed. Was it his habit to keep many jewels at Portland Place? Forsyth would very much like to see the collection and with Lorna as a guide …

With Mannering’s strange warning echoing in her ears the motive of Forsyth’s casual questions were almost blatant. When Forsyth lowered his eyes to light a cigarette she nodded sharply, meaningly; and Mannering saw her in the mirror. The Baron’s lips curved, but he gave no other show of emotion, and he left the Elan before the others. Forsyth had not noticed him before, and looked startled as he passed, bowing frigidly to Lorna.

‘I say, Lorna, I’d no idea …’ The large man’s tone was an apology in itself.

‘Oh, it doesn’t matter.’

‘Damned bad for you,’ muttered Forsyth. ‘I wouldn’t have done that for the world.’

‘Let’s forget him,’ said Lorna sharply.

‘Oh, Lord, yes, by all means. Well – if you can fit me in to see your father’s collection I’d like nothing better. Don’t always find the old school willing, though.’

‘I’ll arrange it,’ promised Lorna, and saw the momentary glint of satisfaction in Forsyth’s eyes.

They left the Elan ten minutes afterwards, and he saw her to the Chelsea studio before driving off in his Bentley towards Putney. Mannering was in a small car behind him, reminding himself that Parker had travelled in this direction in pursuit of Brenda and Corbertes.

Forsyth garaged the Bentley at a garage near Putney Bridge Station, and walked along an alley towards the station itself.

Ten minutes afterwards a large man clad in a light mackintosh came out of the station, and Mannering’s eyes narrowed. The bulk and the walk was Forsyth’s: but the heavy beard and moustache altered his appearance convincingly.

‘Simple but effective,’ murmured the Baron, and he felt a sharper excitement while as casually as he could he walked in Forsyth’s wake. The bearded man turned into a garage opposite New King’s Road, and came out after a few minutes at the wheel of a Jaguar.

Mannering went back to his car.

The simplicity of Forsyth’s move, like so many of the Baron’s arrangements, helped its success; but one thing was certain. Forsyth had no idea he was suspected, or he would have adopted a more cautious method of approach. As it was he drove fast through Putney High Street and up the hill, until he turned into the carriageway of one of the large houses facing Wimbledon Common.

‘Grey Lodge,’ murmured the Baron, and he drove straight past, seeming to look neither right nor left.

He did not return to town at once, but reconnoitred the district. Grey Lodge was backed by a house equally large, and fronting on a by-road called Grove Crescent. All the houses were substantial, and had their private drives.

To get from Grey Lodge to any of them would not be difficult, for the adjoining gardens were bordered mostly by hedges; only one house was completely surrounded by a brick wall, the top of which was smooth.

Word came from Chloe three hours afterwards.

He had been called by Bristow, who appeared satisfied when Mannering said that things were going reasonably well (and who said gruffly that the packet had contained a gun), and Flick Leverson, interested in the progress of the affair and anxious for the Baron. The fourth call was from Chloe.

He recognised her ‘hallo’ before she used the short name he had suggested for agony column correspondence.

‘Is that Mel …’

The Baron answered quickly, feeling the quickening of his pulse.

‘All right. What news?’

‘I’ve had another call from Mike.’ He sensed the undercurrent of excitement. ‘I’ve got to be at the foot of Putney Hill at half past six.’

‘So that clinches it.’ Mannering paused, considering the best move. ‘Are you still game?’

‘I’ve told you I am!’

‘Remembering Savoyan?’ Mannering insisted.

‘Damn Savoyan. I’ll be there. Don’t start arguing now, I—we’ve got to get those youngsters free, can’t you understand that?’

‘Didn’t I once christen you the angel?’ asked Mannering. ‘I’ll be near at hand during the night, so don’t worry what happens. They’ll ask you about my call this morning, and you’ll swear you refused to have anything to do with me. Cry, shout, storm, do anything you like, but keep up the denial.’

‘I’ll fix it. I don’t know what game you’re playing, but I suppose you know best.’

‘I hope I do,’ said the Baron soberly. ‘Goodbye and good luck.’

As he replaced the receiver the risks facing him seemed greater. He was risking his own life and in a lesser degree Chloe’s. Even if he failed to save his own, the Collyns would probably be all right.

He lifted the telephone again, and called Toby Plender’s office. The solicitor greeted him as abruptly as always, but exclaimed when Mannering said: ‘I want a couple of ex-policemen, Toby; men who look the part from head to foot.’

‘You want what?’

‘Do I have to repeat it all? They’re to be on the opposite side of the road to Grey Lodge, Wimbledon Common, at midnight. The opposite side of the road. And if there’s any sign of men or cars coming from the house, they’re to dodge on to the common. If they don’t they might meet trouble. Can you find them through a private agency?’

‘Well, yes, but—’

‘And next,’ said the Baron, ‘there’s a stiffer job for you.’

He spent ten minutes ramming home on Plender the necessity for the action he proposed, and when he finished he felt warm but relieved that because of the Great Marlborough Street incident he was able to exert some influence over the well-liked and reputable criminal solicitor. As far as he could see he had closed all the avenues for danger to others, with the possible exception of Chloe.

But if he failed …

‘Exit the Baron,’ he said slowly.

Before he prepared to leave the flat at half past ten he phoned Lorna, and she wondered what had happened to make him so brimful of confidence. She did not dream that it might be his farewell, nor that when he finished he called Plender again, with a message for her.

He finished his phoning with a call to Lord Collyn.

‘Sure, that’s right,’ said Welch miserably. ‘I kept on ‘im as far as Piccadilly, and he lost me at the roundabout.’

‘I understood that you were an expert at that business,’ said Forsyth.

‘I did me best,’ muttered Welch. ‘I can’t do no more, can I?’ As he spoke he glanced furtively at the girl sitting in a chair next to the bearded man. He shivered, and relief filled him when Forsyth saved his hand.

‘All right, you can go. Have every point guarded, as I told you.’

‘A blinking tank couldn’t get past me!’ exclaimed Welch, as he sidled out of the room.

Forsyth turned to Chloe.

Her hair was damp about her forehead and neck, strands of it were on her shoulders, about the floor. Her eyes were swollen and red-rimmed. Her left arm had been bared to the shoulder, and on it were red burn blisters, like the inflamed punctures of the vaccine needle. There was no colour in her cheeks, her body flopped in the chair, as though she was weary to death; but there was defiance in her eyes.

‘Well, my dear,’ said Forsyth as deeply as ever, ‘are you still quite sure?’

‘Yes, damn you, yes! I didn’t say a word. I can’t tell you what we arranged if we didn’t arrange anything!’ She gasped for breath, and wiped the back of her hand across her trembling lips.

‘I’m almost inclined to believe you,’ Forsyth said. ‘If it’s true you will get ample compensation, I promise you. What do you think, gentlemen?’

Hawley, pale and nervous, gulped.

‘She’s all right. You could have seen that an hour ago.’

‘Corbertes?’

The Frenchman’s tongue came out and ran along his lips.

‘Perhaps she tell the truth. I think so. Before’—his expression as he looked at the girl was all Mannering would have needed to justify his decision—’it was not certain. But Hawley, if zis worry you—nom d’un nom, I could tell you of ze things …’

‘We needn’t go into that,’ said Forsyth. ‘Hawley is a little impressionable, he was brought up in a different mould from you, Corbertes. Chloe, dear, we really must apologise. You can go …’ He pressed a bell, and one of the men who had been on duty at Welling Hall came in. ‘Show Miss Renkle to her room, Greeson, and arrange for some refreshment. All the others are—er—at their posts?’

‘According to orders, sir, yes.’

‘Thank you,’ bayed Forsyth, and when the door closed he faced the dubious glances from Hawley and Corbertes. He stifled their criticism by beaming round and speaking quickly. ‘Let it be understood that although the Baron did not succeed in seducing her loyalty, his interest in her proves that he knows she is working with us. Welch is certain it was our visitor of last night.’

‘But,’ growled Corbertes, ‘there …’

‘Is no proof he knows we are here. True, my friend, but you must remember that you both came straight here from Welling Hall. He may have followed you. We have already proved his resourcefulness.’

‘He would be a fool to come,’ growled Hawley, ‘and he isn’t a fool.’

‘But an egoist,’ said Forsyth, ‘whose belief in himself has been sorely affronted by our activities. He may not come tonight, but he will come. He may wait, hoping that we move first with Collyn, but there will be an end to his patience.’ He glanced at his watch, and yawned. ‘Half past eleven. Zero hour, perhaps, is midnight.’

A house-telephone on the desk rang.

He lifted the receiver quickly, and as he listened the others saw his beard and moustache part in a wide smile, and heard his chuckle as he said: ‘Excellent, excellent,’ and rang off. Then he looked from one to the other.

‘It works, you see. There is a man at the north library window.’