Held At Bay (2 page)

Chapter Two

The Baron Interferes

The Baron seemed thoroughly at home as he sat on the corner of the table, with the trio of silent crooks in front of him. He put his automatic on the table, and took out cigarettes. He selected one, put it to his lips through a slit in the blue handkerchief, lit it and then tossed the case to Kelworthy. The old man caught the case and selected a cigarette with fingers that were still trembling.

“Pass it on,” said the Baron amiably. He waited until Granette was smoking. Olling was puffing at his cigar. The Baron caught the case that Granette tossed back, and tucked it away.

“Now we're all friendly and sociable, I'll start correcting some impressions. In fact I'm probably twice as dangerous as you think – with you three.”

“Why with us?” demanded Kelworthy.

“Because you're as wary of the police as I am,” said the Baron. “I draw the line at shooting policemen, but I don't draw the line at anything with you. Don't run away with the idea that I carry only a gas-pistol.”

“Who's been talking?” snapped Kelworthy.

“Call it a little bird,” said the Baron. “I know that for the past two years you've been as busy as I have with stolen gems. But I don't like your methods. Do you remember the night-watchman at Revel's Depot, who was in hospital for seven months, Granette? Using a knife is going too far.”

“You can talk,” muttered Kelworthy. “The things you've done—”

“We're discussing you, not me,” said the Baron. “Try and remember it. Another thing that interested me in you was your interest in the five Jewels of Castilla. They're not gems I'd like you to handle. I didn't come for the Isabella tonight, I came to talk to you. In fact, if you hadn't mentioned you were carrying the Isabella, I might not have known you had it here. Very careless, Jacob, and it proves that you talk too much.”

“For how long did you have the pleasure of listening to us, Mannering?” asked Granette suddenly.

The Baron turned speculative eyes towards the Frenchman.

“I listened from the moment that you started talking. I followed you and Olling from the Elan, and opened a window while you were coming through the front door. It's surprising how policemen and thieves never worry about burglar alarms. But you've one wrong impression. What gave you the idea that my name is Mannering?”

Granette's lips curled.

“Did you not hear me mention Teevens?”

“Oh, yes. But I didn't imagine you were gullible enough to believe all Teevens says. Teevens and Mannering quarrelled bitterly, and Teevens would like to get what he calls revenge. Mannering and I are excellent friends, although what would happen if he knew I was the Baron I really begin to wonder. Get the idea out of your head.”

“Most unconvincing, Mannering,” Granette said tartly.

“A lot of very convincing things will happen unless you give up the idea of stealing the five Jewels of Castilla. Which brings us to the crux of the matter. Forget those stones, and you'll be all right. Go after them, and I'll guarantee to have the three of you parcelled up for the Old Bailey within a month.”

Olling was breathing hard, his cigar dead. Kelworthy's wrinkled eyes were blinking, and his scraggy hands were folded in his lap. Only Granette and the Baron seemed self-possessed.

“Is that—is that a threat?” squeaked Kelworthy.

“How in heaven's name you manage to run this syndicate, Jacob, I don't know. You look like a corpse and you talk like a fool, but there must be a spark of intelligence in you somewhere.”

The change in Jacob Kelworthy was astonishing. He stopped fidgeting, and his eyes no longer blinked, his voice was still harsh, but not querulous.

“That's more than enough. You'll be in jail long before we are.”

“This isn't a game of I-say-you-say,” retorted the Baron. “Little tricks like the one with the Isabella will neither harm me nor help the police. I've come with a straightforward proposition. Stop the hunt for the five Jewels of Castilla, and I'll leave you alone. Go after them, and I'll break you.”

The words sounded as bleak as a five-year sentence from the judge to Olling, who was feeling physically sick. After his one outburst, Kelworthy had quietened down. There was something in the Baron's confidence that was not only convincing, but frightening.

But Jules Granette laughed.

“You are over confident.”

“Are you coming after the jewels?”

“Most certainly I am,” Granette answered suavely. “The others are, also.”

The Baron looked from one man to the other, his hazel eyes very hard.

“Right, we'll call it war, and you'll regret it very soon. Don't say I didn't warn you.”

The Baron finished speaking while he was moving from the table. He continued to move towards the door. He was facing the trio all the time, guessing that Granette was aching to get at his gun. He put his left hand behind him, took the key from the keyhole, and opened the door. Before Kelworthy or the others realised it, the Baron was in the next room, and the door was shut and locked against them.

Olling, red-faced and swearing now, moved for the door.

“The window,” cried Granette. “The window!”

Olling stopped in the middle of a stride, and swung round. Granette was already pulling the sashcord window down. It squeaked protestingly before there was space enough for Granette to squeeze through. Olling, filled with the courage of desperation, went after him.

Kelworthy stayed where he was, but took an automatic pistol from the drawer in his desk, every movement cool and deliberate. His eyes were narrowed, his expression little short of murderous.

In the hall of Kelworthy's house the Baron was moving very fast and softly. He reached the front door, opened it and then banged it to, without going out. He paused by the foot of the stairs, his lips curved behind his mask, his eyes as bright as ever. He heard the footsteps of the men on the gravel path outside.

To the Baron half the joy of cracksmanship was the risk entailed, and from a joust with a trio like the Kelworthy syndicate he got more fun than from a dozen straightforward robberies. He was telling himself that Kelworthy, Granette and Olling would be sure that he had left the house; the last place in which they would think of looking for him would be here.

The Baron went quickly upstairs. As he reached the first landing he heard the front door bell ring, and he guessed that Olling and Granette had returned from a fruitless chase.

Footsteps came from the landing above.

He swung round, catching sight of the shoes and ankles of a manservant hurrying downstairs. The Baron slipped quickly into the shadow of a big cupboard. If the servant glanced towards him, the game would be up. The Baron's hands were clenched, his heart was thumping, but the man was in too much of a hurry to look about him.

The Baron left the shelter, and tried the handles of the nearest doors. The first two rooms were bedrooms. The third was what he wanted – a small, windowless room, furnished as an office and with a small safe in the north wall. He went in as Granette and Olling crossed the hall, and he heard the closing of the drawing-room door. The servant's footsteps clattered along the passage by the side of the staircase but not upstairs.

The lamp on the landing spread a fair light into the office, showing the door of the safe. The Baron glanced round for the keys, without much hope, and then started to work on the safe. It was a combination lock, unlikely to give him much trouble.

His ears were strained to catch the clicking of the tumblers, and any sound from downstairs. He turned the knob first right, then left, listening carefully and smiling as he heard the tumblers falling smoothly. Two years before a combination safe would have baffled him: now it was only a matter of time.

He heard the final fall, and pulled open the safe. There was a wad of treasury notes inside, and he slipped them into his pocket, then picked up a leather wallet. He pressed his fingers against this, and felt half a dozen medium-sized gems inside. There was nothing else in the safe.

He took some of the gems from the wallet, glancing expertly at the blue glow of sapphires, stolen two nights before from a merchant on the way to Hatton Garden. The police and the Press had both been searching for them.

He replaced the sapphires, more cheerful even than he had been before, slipped the complete haul into his pocket, closed the safe door, and stepped back to the landing. The murmur of voices was still coming from the drawing-room, with Olling's voice more high-pitched than usual. He reached the front door, opened it and walked to the porch.

In the light of the street lamps he could see Rideway Drive, where Kelworthy's house was situated, and the short carriageway with the gates wide open. He was still smiling when he leaned back and slammed the door.

The crash reverberated through the house and along Rideway Drive. It was still echoing while the Baron reached the drive gates and swung left, taking off his mask as he went, his coat tails flying behind him.

By the time he reached his car, a big Austin parked fifty yards away, Granette and Olling were at the gateway. They saw the red lights of the car, heard the whine of its engine and in the distance they thought they heard the Baron's mocking laughter.

Olling felt cold. Granette's eyes were very narrow, and his lips were stretched tight and thin. In both their minds was the single thought: they must kill the Baron.

Ten minutes later their malevolence reached its highest peak, for Kelworthy had discovered the rifled safe, and realised that the Baron had struck twice, in that sudden, devastating way that had made him notorious.

Kelworthy stood by the open safe, his yellow teeth bared, his hands shaking with fury.

“See that—see that? Every penny in the house,
and
the Delawney sapphires – ten thousand pounds as well as the Isabella! Forty—thousand—pounds!” The words came in a whisper now, and Kelworthy looked white and ill. “We must get them back, Granette. We must get them back!”

Olling muttered: “What about the police? The Isabella's ours.”

“The moment we send for the police, I shall leave the syndicate,” Granette said.

Kelworthy smoothed his stubbly chin.

“Granette's right, of course. We can't go to the Yard, we'd never be free of them. We must handle this ourselves.”

“But—the Baron!” faltered Olling. “You heard him. He's capable of doing what he threatened.”

“He is one man, only one, and we are three,” said Granette.

“You seemed scared enough of him,” said Olling, his red face shiny.

“You confuse being scared and being careful,” retorted Jules Granette. “We have to be up so early to catch the Baron, but that is no reason why it should not be done. For the moment – the other four Jewels of Castilla. The Baron will go after them quickly,
hein
?”

Kelworthy's eyes flickered. He was quiet and cool again now that his first anger had simmered down. Granette knew that in this mood Kelworthy was always at his best.

“That is right,” Kelworthy said. “And we know that the second stone is at Archibald Price's house, in Chelsea. Can you get there tonight, Granette?”

“I can try.” Granette spread his hands out, palms downwards. “It is ten o'clock. I will be there at midnight, and by two o'clock I shall telephone you, of success or not. Olling had perhaps best go home, he is in need of rest.”

Olling was in a ferment of anxiety as he drove to his house at St. Albans, while Jules Granette was as confident as always as he made his way towards the Chenny Street house of a Mr. Archibald Price, in Chelsea. But the stealing of the Sea of Fire, the emerald among the five wanted jewels, took a secondary place in his thoughts. He was far more anxious to get at the Baron, and to make sure he died.

Chapter Three

The Five Jewels Of Castilla

The Baron had the Isabella Diamond, one of the famous five Jewels of Castilla, in his pocket, the Delawney sapphires and three hundred pounds taken from Kelworthy's safe. As he turned the car towards the West End he felt on top of the world.

There was every reason for the Kelworthy syndicate to be scared of him, for in two years he had rocketed to the heights of notoriety. The police of most counties in England were guessing, working and cursing, and his fame had spread overseas. When he was discussed without heat by Chief Inspector William Bristow, of Scotland Yard, and Superintendent Lynch, the Baron was admittedly the most efficient and elusive jewel thief in modern history.

Superintendent Lynch would point out half-jocularly that the Baron's success was not all luck by any means, and Bristow – who handled all the Baron cases in the Metropolitan area – was prepared to admit that. The Baron was skilled and daring. Bristow had forced him into many tight corners but never known him lose his nerve.

Bristow and Lynch could have confirmed Granette's belief that the Baron was one Mr. John Mannering.

Several hundreds of people would have scoffed at the suggestion or been aghast had they been offered proof, for John Mannering was something more than a figure in London society; he was the reigning lion. He had a reputation for immense wealth, a circle of aristocratic friends that could not be surpassed, and was a man-about-town in the old Edwardian style. It was known that he gambled heavily and was abnormally successful, that he collected precious stones, that no social function was complete without him, and that no man in the past five years had turned so many hearts and heads. Yet people who met him for the first time were surprised by his naturalness, disarmed by his easy smile and courtesy, and amused by his lively wit.

In another sphere the Baron's reputation was as enviable, but there seemed nothing in common between the thief and the man-about-town, no reason why John Mannering should be the Baron.

Few knew that two years before he had been down to his last few hundred pounds, that in the bitterness that had followed a love affair, something had seemed to eat into his mind until he had found relief in cracksmanship. The zest for excitement, the tension of pitting his wits against the police and the people, the need for walking on a tightrope all the time, had saved him from disaster. Mannering was still the Baron, but the bitterness of the old affair was gone. He had money enough not to need to follow the ‘profession', there was something in his blood that prevented him from leaving it. Cracksmanship seemed part of him.

There had been times when he had not broken open a safe or a door for several months on end, but some challenge would set him off. Now the five Jewels of Castilla brought the love of a fight to his hazel eyes. He was thinking calmly as he drove through the West End. He did not think Kelworthy was likely to send for the police – the Delawney sapphires would discourage that – but it was not the Baron's policy to take chances. If Kelworthy risked informing the police that the Baron had visited him, Bristow would pay an early visit to Mannering's flat.

So the jewels could not be taken to Clarges Street.

Mannering pulled the Austin into a side turning off Piccadilly, and took a large envelope from his pocket. He slipped the Isabella Diamond and the Delawney sapphires into the stolen wallet, putting the treasury notes on both sides of the stones so that it was impossible to feel the hard lumps through the paper. He sealed the wallet inside the envelope and addressed it to:

Mr. James L. Miller,
18, Lanchester Street,
Barnes Common, S.W.

He was smiling as he stamped the package and walked to the nearest pillar-box. Ten minutes after he had reached Piccadilly the jewels and the money from Kelworthy's house were resting at the bottom of the pillar-box. In the morning a postman would handle them casually, for the envelope declared that Messrs. Benjamin Madle's were offering stupendous bargains in their Spring Sale. As the Baron, Mannering was careful in the smallest detail, which accounted for a great deal of his ‘luck'. There was no Mr. Miller, but Mannering owned 18 Lanchester Street, and occasionally visited it. It was an excellent hiding-place for gems.

He felt very content as he sauntered back to the car, and drove slowly along Piccadilly. A dozen acquaintances nodded, and Mannering's smile was much in evidence. He reached Clarges Street, left the car outside, and took the lift to his flat.

Yet although he was smiling he was not entirely sure of himself. If Kelworthy had reported the burglary, Bristow might be waiting for him. Mannering's smile was set, and his heart was beating faster than usual as he unlocked the front door of his rooms. And then he had a shock.

The door was half open when he heard the unmistakable sound of a footfall inside the flat. For a second every muscle in his body went rigid. He slipped his hand into his pocket, and gripped the automatic – an empty one. He opened the door wide, trying to make the unknown visitor aware of his discovery.

A woman's laughing voice came: “I thought you were never coming, John.”

Mannering stopped on the threshold, and relief flooded through him. Next moment the door closed behind him and he strode across the room. His arms went round the slim, graceful woman who came towards him.

Soon, Mannering was laughing into Lorna Fauntley's dancing eyes.

He had not seen Lorna for a month, and had not expected her in London that night. She was looking very lovely, in that rather dark, half-mysterious way of hers. Many people refused to call her beautiful, but to Mannering she was. Her skin was flawless, if a little on the sallow side, and there seemed something of the piquancy of the Southerner in her. Her full lips were parted, her dark hair unruly. She was dressed in a heather tweed costume, and to Mannering she brought a breath of the country, sending London dozens of miles away. Every movement she made possessed an easy grace.

“At least you seemed pleased to see me,” she said.

“I wish you were miles away, sweetheart, and now call me a liar.” He took off his coat and flung it over a chair back. “When did you arrive?”

“I haven't arrived, I'm passing through,” Lorna said. “Mother's tired of Scotland and wants to look at Menton. We're staying in London for one night.”

“Thanks be for small mercies,” said Mannering.

Beneath the shaded electric light it was easy to see what there was about him to fascinate women, for his tanned skin threw his white teeth into relief as he smiled, his dark hair was waving a little, his laughing eyes seemed to possess all the humour in the world. “I'd forgotten you had a key. Been waiting long?”

“Something over an hour,” said Lorna. “So I sent for something to eat. Sit down and let me look at you properly.”

“Why?” said Mannering, taking out his cigarettes. He eyed her reflectively, very content. Yet it passed through his mind that Lorna Fauntley was probably as responsible as anyone for the continued existence of the Baron.

If they could have married, the Baron might well have died a natural death. But she was already married and could not get a divorce.

They looked on the situation dispassionately now, and deliberately saw each other as seldom as they could, for they wanted marriage, not a substitute. No one knew of that barrier, and so it was rumoured that they were engaged. Mannering and Lorna Fauntley were satisfied to leave it at that, while the Baron's activities did a great deal to relieve Mannering's frustration.

They talked of trifles for a while, and then Lorna's eyes narrowed.

“Well, John. Busy?”

“Very.”

“As the Baron?”

“As the Baron,” Mannering agreed cheerfully. “And this time it's for a cause.” He was flippant and smiling, but she sensed the underlying seriousness in his words.

“What cause?”

“For a beautiful girl and a noble aristocrat,” declared the Baron with a smile. “You know the de Castillas?”

Lorna's eyes widened. “The de Castillas! But how—”

“Be quiet and I'll tell you,” said the Baron. “You know they came out of Spain with precious little more than they stood up in? They've been luckier since. Don Manuel had money over here, and they've nothing to worry about over money. But worry,” said John Mannering with a scowl, “isn't all about money. It seems that while they were over in Castile, thieves raided their home, and got away with most of the family jewels. Among them was the Castilla Crown.”

Lorna's interest quickened. Through her father and Mannering, both jewel collectors, she knew a great deal about precious stones. She needed no telling that the five Jewels of Castilla, set in the old de Castilla Crown, was one of the most famous pieces in Europe.

“The long and short of it is that the de Castillas have offered a hundred thousand for the return of the five jewels,” he said. “And so—”

“You said this was chivalry,” said Lorna.

“Mostly it is,” said the Baron. “You've only heard a little yet. The crown was broken up, and the five jewels sold separately. One is in Paris, three are somewhere in England, and one is in New York, de Castilla learned that much, but there's confusion. None of the owners of the stones
know
what they are. The individual weights and measurements were never made public, and the result is that the five jewels can only be traced by an individual who does know them. Beginning to see?”

“Yes. But if the weights aren't known, how can
you
get them?”

Mannering chuckled.

“Young Juan de Castilla gave me all the necessary information, and the situation is simply this: Don Manuel will pay twenty thousand pounds for each stone, providing he can get all five. But no one who has the stones wants to sell. All of them have been bought through dubious channels. The only stone that has been on the market is the Isabella Diamond, which was bought by a gentleman named Kelworthy.”

“He might as well be Smith for all he means to me,” said Lorna. “And you're going after them?”

“Yes,” said Mannering, so quietly that she knew it was useless to argue with him. “I wasn't thinking of it when I first heard that they were wanted, but there are complications. Before I explain to you you'll have to realise that four jewel collectors in different places have gems from the Castilla Crown, not knowing where they're from. Pierre Panneraude, of Paris, has the diamond they call the Crown of Castile, a hundred and four carats, de Castilla says, and I'm prepared to believe him. Our Mr. Kelworthy has – or had – the Isabella Diamond. Archibald Price, probably the meanest collector in London, holds an emerald they call the Sea of Fire – all the stones, need I say, have the usual legends about them. I'd hate to tell you the story of the Desire Diamond, owned by a merchant-collector in Hatton Garden; a man named Salmonson, whom I don't know from Adam. The fifth stone is a ruby, the bloodstone of the Castillas, which Juan calls the Flame Ruby. Van Royton, of New York, has it. And,” added Mannering, “they all know that someone wishes to buy the stones, but they've no idea that it is the de Castilla family.”

“I've gathered that,” Lorna said drily.

“It's important,” smiled Mannering, stretching his legs. From the drawing-room in Hampstead to this flat, with Lorna at his side, seemed a million miles. “De Castilla made the offer for twenty thousand pounds apiece through Ferris, a reputable dealer in Hatton Garden, but Ferris can't get them. Jacob Kelworthy, with two friends, learned what Castilla wanted, and what he was offering. Kelworthy knows that the Don can as easily pay two hundred thousand as one hundred thousand for the stones, and will if he's pushed to it. Kelworthy is a kind of uncrowned king of crooks, leading a tight little syndicate. He decided to try to get the jewels,
bought
the Isabella, and aims to get all five, then offer them to Castilla at two hundred thousand pounds or a hundred per cent above their value. We now see where the chivalry comes in. I'd like to beat Kelworthy's syndicate to the gems, and sell to Don Manuel at his own fair figure.”

“I can see that,” Lorna said, and the expression in her eyes was mutinous, almost sullen. “You're inviting trouble from the police here, in France and in America, and you'll have Kelworthy's crowd on your back. Darling – it's too risky, far too risky.”

“I visited Kelworthy tonight, asking him to drop the game,” Mannering said. “He refused, so I collected the Isabella Diamond from him, with the Delawney sapphires. The sapphires being stolen property, Kelworthy isn't likely to go to the police, but whether I drop out of the hunt or not, he'll probably come gunning for me. So I stay in, sweetheart. I'm glad you're going to Menton.”

Lorna looked almost angry, and he guessed the thoughts passing through her mind. She hated the danger that always faced the Baron, but she understood the compulsion that sent him on these dangerous escapades, the zest he had for them. Suddenly, she threw back her head and laughed.

“All right, darling, I won't interfere. Let's get out somewhere, I want to dance.”