Meet The Baron (16 page)

“You mean - Marie Overndon?”

“Yes,” said Randall, eyeing his friend closely. Mannering was smiling easily enough; after that first moment he seemed to have complete control over himself, and Randall breathed more freely.

“Everything else apart,” he said, “I thought I’d better tell you. Every time she’s been in town lately you’ve been away, but now - ”

“Mere chance that I’ve missed her,” said Mannering. “But what’s the real trouble?”

Randall shrugged his shoulders, and Mannering knew that there was something more than the fact of Marie Overndon’s visit to London.

“She’s getting married,” Randall blurted out at last, and he coloured furiously.

Mannering widened his eyes and laughed, fully under control now.

“The devil she is! And the man?”

“One of Lady Kenton’s new Americans.”

“Speed!” Mannering laughed, and lit another cigarette.

“Money and . . .” Randall grinned, reassured now. “Anyhow, if you’d like to go down to Somerset for a week or two, old boy, use me. I mean, the Kentons and the Fauntleys are pretty thick, and you’ll never be able to sidestep the wedding and what not. So - ”

“Now, that wedding,” said Mannering, cheerfully and hopefully, “should be something special, with Lady Mary on the one side, the Dowager on the other, and the almighty dollar overlooking all. It ought to be terrific, Jimmy!”

“But I thought,” said Randall, “that you - ”

“Would wilt under the blow.” Mannering’s smile told nothing. “I might have; I won’t now.”

“You’re a funny animal,” said Jimmy Randall judicially. “I can’t make you out lately.”

“It’s my complex,” said Mannering comfortingly, “and your digestion. Have you seen Toby lately?”

“Yes, and then again no,” said Randall. “I went along to see him this morning, but I was beaten by a short head by some police fellow. Bloke named Bristow.”

“Bristow?” Mannering echoed the word, and the room seemed misty. “I seem to know the name . . .” He grinned, making an effort that he would not have believed himself capable of a few weeks before. Bristow and Plender together - good God! “Of course, the Kenton brooch fellow. Have you heard about that, Jimmy - ”

“Has anybody in London escaped it?” groaned Randall.

Mannering sat and smoked for twenty minutes after his friend’s departure, and there was only one thought in his mind. He voiced it to himself slowly.

“Now, why is Bristow visiting Toby?” he demanded. “There can’t be any connection, of course, but - ”

He stuck at that ‘but.’ There was no reason for imagining Bristow’s visit to the lawyer was not a coincidence, but at that time Mannering’s immersion into the cold water of his game was comparatively new; frequently it made him shiver. He waited at the hotel for half an hour, almost expecting the telephone bell to ring or Bristow and Plender to enter the apartment. It was sheer funk, he admitted to himself. The robbery at Streatham, the jewels he had sold to Grayson, the affair of Bristow at the pawnshop, all seemed to carry the very letters of his name. He had been concerned in them. It was absurd to think that Bristow and the others had been hoodwinked, madness to think that the name Baron deceived them.

“For God’s sake,” he muttered suddenly, “get on top of yourself! If you must do something telephone Toby, talk to him, get it over . . .”

For the third time that afternoon he looked at himself in the mirror, and now he saw the film of sweat on his forehead. He smiled suddenly, and the mirror grinned back at him sardonically.

“Your biggest trouble,” he said, “is going to be keeping yourself in hand, J.M.”

He felt steadier as he acted on his decision, left the hotel, and taxied to the Chancery Lane offices of Toby Plender. Plender was in, cheerful and more Punch-like than ever.

“I suppose you couldn’t get mixed up in a scandal of some kind, could you?” he inquired, as they shook hands. “It would look good. Solicitors to Mr John Mannering - Plender, Son, and Plender. A little notoriety helps even sober lawyers.”

“I’m so pathetically idle these days that I couldn’t fit it in,” Mannering said. “And, anyhow, I sacked my solicitor a long time ago.”

Plender smiled at the thrust. His eyes bored into Mannering - or so Mannering thought.

“Did you, then?” he said, and shrugged his shoulders. “By the way - ”

For some reason Mannering’s mouth was dry, and his face, although Plender noticed nothing, was very drawn.

“I had a visit from a would-be friend of yours this morning,” Plender finished.

Mannering stared. He tried to make the stare look intelligent, but something was hammering inside his mind, an insistent warning. It had come as a shock, even though he told himself he had half expected it. But why was Toby so friendly?

“A would-be what?” he managed to ask at last.

“Friend. At least, acquaintance. Do you know Old Bill at all?”

“Old Bill? . . .”

“Bristow,” said Plender, pushing cigarettes across his desk. “Obviously you don’t.”

“You mean the policeman?” Mannering was surprised by the evenness of his voice. “The poor devil who’s handling the Kenton brooch job?”

“The same,” chuckled Plender.

Mannering’s mind cleared suddenly. If Toby Plender knew anything he wouldn’t be talking like this, and that smile wouldn’t be in his eyes. Something had happened out of the ordinary, but it wasn’t anything which connected him, Mannering, with the recent robberies; the relief made him feel almost light-headed, but he spoke casually enough.

“What’s he after?” he asked.

Plender chuckled again.

“An amateur detective,” he said. “He’s noticed that you and one or two others have always been present - nearly always, anyhow - when a job’s been done. Do you know what a ‘job ‘is?”

“I’ve an idea,” smiled Mannering. The truth was gradually dawning, the amazing, incredible truth.

“Well,” went on Plender, “Bristow’s got an idea that one of the servants is the culprit. He can’t follow the Fauntley crowd round the country - they do shift a bit, J.M. - and he wondered whether I thought you would care to keep an eye open.”

“Not me!” gasped Mannering.

Plender chuckled, and his chin nearly met his nose.

“Yes, he’s serious. He asked me - knowing that I know you well - whether I thought you’d jib at the idea. Apparently it’s entirely his own, without any official sanction, and he’s not sure whether you’ll take the suggestion nicely or whether you’re another Lady Kenton.”

“Eh?” asked Mannering bemusedly.

“In a manner of speaking,” said Plender. “Well - curse you, J.M!” He broke off, and grinned, for Mannering was red in the face. His body was quivering, and he was pressing his hands against his sides, hard. For a full three minutes he sat back in his chair, heaving; it was one of those absurd, infectious laughs that stopped for a split second and then went on again. Plender grinned, chuckled, and started to laugh with his friend. The absurdity of it made his laugh convulsive.

“Oh - my - Lord!” gasped Mannering, as the convulsions subsided. “I’m sorry - Toby - but I just - saw the funny side of it! Oh - my - Lord!”

“You quite appreciate, Mr Mannering,” said Detective Inspector William Bristow, “that it’s entirely an idea of my own. I hardly like to approach you, but the thefts are getting more frequent. The presence of regular men might act as a deterrent; I’d much rather catch the thieves red-handed, though. They won’t for a moment suspect you of working with the police.”

“They?” queried John Mannering.

“He’s smart,” thought Bristow to himself Aloud: “Yes, there may be more than one, I fancy, but I’ll admit I’m completely in the dark.” He chuckled, not entirely with humour. “The Press calls it ‘baffled,’ and that isn’t far wrong.”

Mannering, sitting in the small office of the detective at Scotland Yard, lit a cigarette thoughtfully and flicked the match out of the open window. His expression was serious; mentally he was going through similar convulsions to those which had seized him in Toby Plender’s office two hours before. He had called at Scotland Yard, to discover that Bristow was only too pleased by the eagerness with which he proffered his help, and it was too early for him fully to appreciate the joke.

“It is a bit of a poser,” he admitted. “To tell you the truth, Inspector, I’ve been tempted to try my hand at solving it before, but I didn’t want to tread on any official corns.”

“I can relieve you of that worry,” said Bristow, feeling very cheerful. He had heard a great deal of John Mannering, and he was thinking that the rumours had not been exaggerated. Mannering was a distinguished man and an intelligent one. By saying that he had been tempted to try his own hand at solving the mystery of the thefts he had put the detective at his ease immediately. It would not be a case of doing a service for Bristow - and Bristow disliked being under an obligation to any man - it would be a matter of equal interest; by giving Mannering semi-official authority to make inquiries Bristow had pleased Mannering as much as Mannering had pleased him.

Bristow felt very satisfied with himself.

He was as worried as he had ever been by the continual thefts, for he was no nearer a solution of the mystery than he had been weeks before, and the idea of getting Mannering’s help had struck him as a brainwave. Mannering was rich; Mannering was sound. Plender, one of the most respected and reputable solicitors, vouched for him. Bristow would no more have dreamed of suspecting Mannering of being the thief than he would have dreamed of suspecting that the Dowager Lady Kenton had stolen her own bauble.

“Yes,” repeated the detective, “you can do just what you like, Mr Mannering - within reason, that is - and I can assure you that you will get all the help I can give you.”

Mannering nodded thoughtfully, forcing back an absurd desire to guffaw.

“You’re absolutely at a loss?” he asked.

Bristow made no bones about it.

“Absolutely,” he confirmed. “I’ve tackled the servants, and all of them seem all right. I’ve been inclined to doubt whether it’s always the outside job that it seems to be, but everything certainly points that way.”

Mannering pursed his lips.

“Supposing we run over some of the - er - jobs?” he suggested. “I could see your angle, and perhaps work better. I might as well do it thoroughly,” he added, with a smile, “if I’m going to do it at all.”

Old Bill was more pleased than ever. Mannering was intelligent enough to realise that the police angle was important; obviously he had no objection to learning, and he was certainly putting his best into the job. The detective warmed to the other man.

And Mannering warmed to the detective.

He had always heard that old Bill Bristow was popular, and he had been surprised to learn that the men who had been in prison for periods ranging from a month to seven years often had a good word for the sprucely dressed Inspector. He could understand why. Bristow did his job humanely; he treated a rogue as a man, and was always friendly.

Mannering was feeling sorry for Bristow too. It was the richest thing that the Baron could have conceived, and he enjoyed the next hour more than any he had spent for a long time. This meeting and arrangement, he knew, would give him the one thing he lacked - confidence when he was with other people connected with the robberies as Mannering and not Baron.

“First,” Bristow said, “you had best know we’re dubbing our man ‘the Baron’.”

Mannering frowned and asked the obvious ‘Why?’

He learned of the pawn-ticket and the things Bristow had discovered about the Baron’s activities; and he learned that Superintendent Lynch had first stopped talking of Baron, and added the ‘the’; for this Mannering was particularly grateful.

For an hour he went over with the policeman the various thefts that had taken place in houses visited by the Fauntley circle. He discovered just how much Bristow had done to find the thief. He learned the usual formalities, the regular system; and he could see where the routine work had been bound to fail to surmount the difficulties of the problem.

It was an illuminating conference. Mannering felt, as they finished and leaned back in their chairs, that he would be able to outwit Bristow in a dozen different ways. It was as perfect a joke as he had ever met, and the only thing which spoiled it was the fact that he was forced to keep it to himself.

Old Bill accepted a cigarette as he stopped talking.

“So you see,” he said, as two streams of smoke went towards the ceiling, “that you’ve a pretty stiff job on, Mr Mannering. Whenever possible you want to be near the lighting switch.”

“I can manage that,” said Mannering, with a smile.

“And yet be unobserved,” said Bristow.

“I could try,” murmured Mannering.

An unassuming fellow, thought Bristow.

“Is there any - er - place where you think there might be trouble in the near future?” Mannering put the question idly.

Bristow scowled at that.

“I’m not sure,” he said. “Of course, there’s the Overndon wedding - ”

“Hm,” murmured Mannering.

“I will say one thing about the Americans,” said Bristow, “and that’s that they’re thorough. Er - you know about the affair?”

Mannering nodded. He had discovered, since Jimmy Randall’s visit that afternoon, that Marie Overndon was marrying Frank Wagnall, of the Brooklyn Wagnalls. Wagnall, with his parents and with several friends, was in London for the season - and a little longer than the season - and the high spot of their visit now was the marriage. Mannering did not know the Wagnalls, but he had heard that they were reputed to be very rich.

What bitterness he had felt towards Marie had completely gone, although the effect of that month at Overndon Manor remained in part, of course. It had completely changed him, and it had started him in this mad game of chance. In many ways he was glad. There was something exhilarating in it, a zest he had never before experienced. The very fact of sitting in Bristow’s office discussing crimes which he himself had committed was more stimulating than any spirit.

But he did feel that Marie Overndon’s wedding would give him an excellent opportunity for a haul larger than anything he had made, excepting for the Rosa pearls; and there would be more than a little malicious pleasure in it.