Meet The Baron (3 page)

There was no reason in his mind, just then, for the move. He was not even playing with the idea that was to seize him very soon with a force that he could not resist. Afterwards it seemed to him that the thing was forming even before he was conscious of it. He felt desperate - and he wanted to gamble; what the gamble was like didn’t matter, provided the stakes were high.

Well - he had five thousand pounds, and while any of it remained he did not propose to alter what Toby would have called ‘his ways.’ He felt pleased at the step he had taken, even if he did not realise its far-reaching effect.

10.30 a.m. Sam, clerk to Billy Tricker, turf accountant, lifted the telephone to his ear and gave his employer’s name wearily.

“Mannering,” said the man at the other end of the wire. “A hundred Blackjack, at sevens, to win - ”

“Can’t do it. Sixes.”

“All right, sixes. Double any to come with Feodora, at fives.”

“She’s up - sixes too. The lot?”

“Yes,” said Mannering.

“O.K.” said Sam, and wearily summarised: “One hundred on Blackjack, 2.30, Lingfield, to win; any to come Feodora, 4 o’clock. Both sixes. Thanks, Mr M.”

11.30 a.m. “Yes, Mr Mannering, I’ve several of your cards. Just a moment, Mr Mannering, I’ll make a note”

Florette, florist of Bond Street, pulled an order pad towards her. She repeated Mannering’s order in an expressionless voice, but there was a smile on her lips, for in the past twelve months she had taken similar instructions from Mannering so many times that she was beginning to see the funny side of it.

“Four white roses - four dozen, I beg your pardon - to Miss Alice Vavasour, at 7 Queen’s Gate, and two dozen red carnations to Miss Madaline Sayer, at the Lenville Theatre. Yes, Mr Mannering; thank you, Mr Mannering.”

I2.30 p.m. “But I really can’t, John; I’m rehearsing this afternoon, and I’ve two shows to-morrow - idiot!”

“Did I hear the renowned Miss Vavasour say ‘idiot’?” asked Mannering.

“Only over the telephone. No, I can’t. I’ll see you in the dressing room. John, be a darling. Yes, lunch and tea the day after to-morrow. And, darling, the roses were exquisite, but you shouldn’t - Idiot, how could I help it? You’ll try and come round to-night?”

1.30 p.m. “They call this place,” said Mannering, “the Ritz, and you told me that you would meet me here at one o’clock. Explain, sweet Adeline, how that meant one-thirty.”

“A woman’s privilege to be late,” said Madaline Sayer,” and if you call me Adeline again I’ll scratch your face.”

“It’s no woman’s privilege,” said Mannering, “to give me indigestion. That’s our table. And Adeline’s a nicer name than Madaline; more popular too.”

Madaline Sayer laughed. She was a little woman with a pink and white fluffiness that passed for loveliness, and a genuine contralto that made her a popular star at the Lenville. On that day she was at peace with the world, for it was no mean achievement to take John Mannering from Mimi Rayford. Between Mimi of the Continental and Madaline of the Lenville there existed a rivalry in most things, especially the conquest of man. Conquest of John Mannering, Madaline knew, could only be temporary, but to get him direct from Mimi was just too ravishing.

“You’re a brute,” she said. “What’s this about indigestion? Ooo! John, look at the thing inside that frock - ”

“I’ve to be at Lingfield at three-fifteen,” said Mannering, glancing idly at a debutante in a floral creation which had excited his companion’s envy and admiration, “which means that I must be away by two.”

“John! I thought we were going to have the whole afternoon. There’s that divine houseboat I’m longing to rent this summer.”

She pouted, while Mannering ordered lunch, and was still pouting when he laughed at her. The gleam of his teeth against his dark skin seemed to stab her. She looked round the room, and a dozen pairs of eyes turned quickly away, eyes directed at Mannering, not at her. She must play her cards carefully with him. He was as rich as Colossus, they said - or was it Croesus? - and he was certainly the most exciting man in London. Some one had compared his smile with Rollson’s, but Rolly wasn’t in it.

She stopped pouting, and tapped his ankle gently beneath the table.

“Well, if you must I suppose you must. Couldn’t I - ”

Her eyes sparkled and her lips opened slightly in carefully simulated expectation. Mannering chuckled.

“My dear, you look adorable, but I’m going alone. And if we talk too much my digestion’s ruined.”

“Serve you right,” she snapped. She was angry for a moment, and her prettiness was spoiled. “You’ll never get to Lingfield in time, anyhow.”

“I’m flying from Croydon.”

“Trust you.”

“I couldn’t have lunched with you,” said Mannering, “if I’d planned to go by road, so - ”

“John, you darling! Oo, and I forgot. The carnations were divine. How did you know that I liked them?”

“You must have let it slip out,” said Mannering dryly.

2.05 p.m. Mannering hurried towards the car waiting for him outside the Ritz, but stopped as Toby Plender’s voice hailed him.

“You again,” he smiled. “Don’t tell me you’ve been lunching with the flighty.”

“A client,” said Plender. “I didn’t think it possible, J.M., to go lower than Mimi Rayford, but you win.”

“What’s this? Another way of calling me a fool?”

“There aren’t any other ways left,” said Plender amiably. “Where are you going?”

“Lingfield, via Croydon. Coming?”

“I earn my living.”

“I get mine honestly,” chuckled Mannering.

He travelled to Croydon by road, and in his haste to catch the ‘plane that was going to the racecourse broke many speed regulations, and spared little time for thinking. But in the air, with the countryside opening out beneath him like a large-scale relief map, and the sun burning into the cabin, he thought a great deal. Toby was still worrying the bone, even though the solicitor had no idea how close his friend was to the border-line. Even now Mannering was not conscious of the idea that was to master him so soon, but he did recognise that the need for finding a way of making money was increasingly urgent; he had not the slightest desire to go under. Of course, it was possible to make money on horses, but . . .

He smiled sardonically, and watched the teeming crowd below as the aeroplane circled over the course and then prepared to land in a near-by field. Despite the fact that he had taken a great deal of trouble to make sure he reached Lingfield he did not feel the same fascination as he had done a few months before. There was something lacking in the appeal of racing and betting; only the gambler’s instinct in him urged him on.

4.00 p.m. Lord Fauntley - plain Hugo Fauntley a few years before - grey-hatted and grey-haired, was fretting nearly as much as the horses at the tape. Mannering, next to him, was smiling easily, hands in pockets and cigarette in the corner of his mouth. The crowd was humming; the raucous voices of the bookies laying their last-minute odds were high above the hum. The line of horses was level at last, and the tape went up.

The crowd roared, and Lord Fauntley bit his lip.

And then the din subsided until it was like distant thunder, with only those spectators near the rails catching the beat of the horses’ hoofs thudding against the sun-baked turf. Mannering heard Fauntley shifting from one foot to the other, and smiled.

“Where is she, Mannering, where is she?” Fauntley stammered. “I didn’t see - I’m still as nervous as a kitten at this game, and I’ve been in it more years than I can remember. Where - ”

“She had number five,” said Mannering, “and started well. Blackjack dropped to fours, did he?”

“Yes - damn Blackjack!”

“But not Feodora.” Mannering grinned, and swept the course through his glasses. He saw the yellow and red of Simmons, on Feodora; he was riding his mount well. Feodora was running fourth, between a little bunch in the lead, and the rest of the field was huddled together twenty yards behind.

“Will she - ” began Fauntley.

“She’s capable of it,” said Mannering. “She’s moving up . . . The Setter’s dropped behind - ”

“Where are my glasses?” muttered Fauntley. “I never can find the darned things.”

“Shouldn’t stuff ‘em in your pockets,” said Mannering.

He smiled to himself, knowing that Lord Fauntley, with five hundred on Feodora, could have laid five thousand or fifty thousand, and taken a loss without being worried. There would be a certain amusement to be derived from separating Lord Fauntley from the Liska diamond, for instance.

“You had a job getting the Liska,” Mannering said aloud.

“Damn the Liska! Where’s Feodora?”

“Second at the mile and a half.”

“Second, eh? And she’s a stayer - I know she’s a stayer.”

“Marriland is coming up,” said Mannering.

He was thinking less of Feodora and Marriland, battling now towards the two-mile post ready for the straight run home, than of Lord Fauntley and the Liska diamond. The Post that morning had recorded, with its superb indifference, that Fauntley had outbidden Rawson for the diamond at the figure of nine thousand seven hundred and fifty pounds. The Liska would eventually adorn the plump neck of the peeress, and it was difficult to imagine a less worthy resting-place - or so Mannering believed. Hm! A particularly foolish train of thought.

Was it? Fauntley could stand the loss.

“Where is she?” muttered Fauntley irritably. “Damn it, Mannering, you know my eyes aren’t what they were.”

“Still second,” said Mannering, “and turning into the straight. Ah! Simmons is touching her. Good boy, Simmons! She’ll do it.”

The excitement of the finish stirred him now. Feodora and Marriland pounded along the hard track, with the rest of the bunch fighting for third place. The murmur of the crowd was fiercer now, and the sea of white faces turned towards the two horses. Feodora’s jockey was using his whip, flicking his horse’s flank. Jackson, on Marriland, was hitting his mount. Mannering was watching the faces of the two jockeys through his glasses. Simmons’ tense, expectant, hopeful, and Jackson’s grim almost to fierceness. Yard by yard the battle was fought, with the winning-post within a hundred yards - ninety - eighty - “Neck and neck,” muttered Fauntley nervously.

“She’ll do it,” said Mannering. “Come on, Simmons - another yard - you’re in the lead.”

Fifty yards to go - forty- - thirty - Lord Fauntley hopped on one foot, then on the other. Mannering’s eyes were very hard and bright. Simmons was almost home.

“Hey!” bellowed Lord Fauntley. “Hey! Hurray! She’s won Feodora, Feodora.” He remembered himself suddenly, and scowled. “Sorry, Mannering - excitement. Ha! She won, then, she won! Do well?”

“Fair,” said Mannering. For some reason, one that he could hardly understand, he was tempted to exaggerate his winnings. “I had a thousand with Blackjack, doubled with Feodora.”

“A thousand? Doubled?” Fauntley choked.

“Hm-hm,” said Mannering, and laughed.

7.00 p.m. “Met that astonishing fellow Mannering,” said Lord Fauntley, as he kissed his wife and dropped into an easy-chair. “Parker - a whisky, with plenty of soda. Astonishing fellow, m’dear - had six thousand on Feodora, and didn’t turn a hair.”

“Six thousand!” gasped Lady Fauntley. “Why the man must be a - a veritable - mustn’t he?”

“Seems so, seems so,” admitted Fauntley. “Parker, I want that to-day. Not a hair, m’dear - never seen anyone take it easier than he did. Talked about the Liska diamond half-way through the race. Parker!”

“Soda - and whisky, m’lord,” said Parker.

“Ha! Parker, Mr John Mannering will be here for dinner.”

“Very good, m’lord,” said Parker. He went downstairs to relate the latest information, knowing well that the visit of Mannering would pleasantly excite the feminine members of the staff.

Meanwhile Fauntley sipped his whisky and waited for his wife to voice appreciation of his effort.

“You invited him to dinner?” Lady Fauntley preened herself, and patted her husband’s hand. “That will show Emmy that she doesn’t have all the good fortune, Hugo. How thoughtful of you to invite him!”

“Always thoughtful for you, m’dear.” Fauntley patted his wife’s hand in turn, finished his whisky-and soda, and smiled. “I think you could wear the Liska to-night. I didn’t know Mannering was interested in stones, but he seems to be, and if he is he’ll notice it.”

“I’m sure he will,” said Lady Fauntley. “Hugo, do you think we ought to ‘phone Lorna and tell her?”

“Lorna?” Lord Hugo thought suddenly of his daughter, who was not merely single, but apparently satisfied to remain unnoticed by men, eligible or otherwise. She was the despair of the Fauntley family, for she had a distressing habit of saying what was in her mind, and caring nothing for consequences. “Well - I don’t want the fellah upset, m’dear. Lorna’s got soma funny ways - ”

“But she adores him! She said this morning that if we could find a man like Mannering she might think of - of - Of course, I’m not fond of her modern ideas, Hugo, but she means well; I’m sure she does. I’ll telephone her, dear.”

7.15 p.m. The telephone in Lorna Fauntley’s studio rang as Lorna was deliberating over crimson lake or crimson pure for the sash on the portrait of Lady Anne Wrigley.

“Damn the ‘phone!” said Lorna equably. “Lake would be a little too bright, perhaps. I’ll make it pure. Hallo?”

“Lorna, darling!”

“Mother, you ought to be shot. I was just in the middle of something that - ”

“Yes, dear, I know how busy you are, but I thought you’d like to know that your father’s invited Mr Mannering to-night. I just wondered whether - ”

“John Mannering?” asked Lorna.

“Who else?” asked Lady Fauntley. “Eight o’clock; but if you’d like to come I’ll keep dinner back a little while.”

“I’m a pig of a daughter,” said Lorna Fauntley, “and there are times when I’m ashamed of myself.”

“I understand you, Lorna.”

Lorna laughed. “I really think you do,” she said. “Be and angel and send Riddell over with the car. I’ve a dress here that I can wear. Bye-Bye.”