John Creasey - Meet The Baron

• Название: Meet The Baron
• Автор: John Creasey
• Жанр: Прочая старинная литература

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Lorna pronounced the wound satisfactory. There was no bleeding now, and no sign of complications. She dressed it with liberal boracic and lint, bandaged it effectively, and told him to move carefully.

“Gingerly’s the word,” Mannering chuckled, yet more pleased with her concern than he would have admitted. Then a thought flashed through his mind, and his eyes were suddenly hard.

“What happened to the bullet?” he asked.

“In the bathroom still,” said Lorna.

“We’d better get rid of it,” said Mannering. “And — have you seen the morning papers yet?”

Lorna shook her head slowly.

There were some outside,” she said. “Were they yours?”

“Yes,” he nodded. “I’ll get ‘em in a moment.”

Lorna smiled obscurely and went out. Mannering began to dress, slowly and awkwardly. Without worrying about a collar or tie, he went into the living-room, sniffed at the odour of grilled bacon, smiled at Lorna for a moment, and then went to the door, with his object half forgotten and his mind filled with the memory of her flushed face.

The papers were folded, just outside, and he took them in and opened them quickly, half-expecting what he saw.

The first words seemed to leap out of the print towards him:

ARMED BURGLAR AT MILLIONAIRE’S HOUSE

MR. CARLOS RAMON ROBBED

THE BARON AGAIN?

The newsprint, written sensationally, was no more than a re-hash of the affair at Queen’s Walk. There were points on which he could have enlightened the journalist who had starred the story, but the one thing for which he was looking was granted him.

The man with whom he had fought and the policeman on whom he had used the gas-pistol were not seriously hurt.

Mannering felt relieved and almost light-hearted. He had hardly realised the depth of his anxiety at the possibility that the guard had been badly injured. Thoughtfully he looked at his knuckles, still grazed and broken. Then, his lips curved a little, he went back to the living-room.

Lorna was serving breakfast. She had found her way about the flat easily and quickly, and his eyes were gleaming as he went to her.

“You’ve located the larder,” he said, standing in front of her. She looked very cool and very capable.

“There was an egg there which should have been thrown out three months ago,” said Lorna, “so it wasn’t difficult. Tea or coffee? I’d rather have tea.”

“So would I,” said Mannering.

He left the papers, front-pages uppermost, on the break-fast-table, and then went into his room. When he reappeared she was reading the story of the burglary. The expression on her lace seemed to defy him, although he hardly knew what to expect. The one thing he did know was that she must learn the truth now — all of it.

“Well ?” he said.

He was paler than usual as the word came out, and it took all his self-control to face her. He had never before seriously considered the possibility of Lorna knowing how he was living. The two separate people, John Mannering and the Baron, had seemed very real to him. He had appeared to think differently, according to which guise he was in. It seemed absurd now to realise that they were one and the same, and that Mannering, the John Mannering part of him, would be judged on the activities of the Baron. That moment, staring at her, he had a feeling of unreality, yet a feeling of great strain, as though everything depended on her reaction.

“Well ?” he said again.

Lorna said: “I know, my dear. I’ve known for some time.”

It couldn’t be true.

That sense of unreality was ten times stronger in Mannering at her words. Neither of them had moved, neither of them had spoken, since that single sentence had come from Lorna, spoken very quietly, and with a lurking humour in her dark eyes.

She knew.

Mannering brushed his hand through his hair, and auto-matically sought in his pockets for cigarettes. Not until the first streamer of smoke went towards the ceiling did he speak, and then his voice was harsh and unnatural.

“What are you saying?” he asked. “Trying to make it easier for me? You couldn’t have known.”

Her smile was still deep — mysterious almost.

“Well, I was fairly sure, John. And I’m not trying to make it easier for you, any more than for myself.” She broke off, turning away. “But the breakfast’s getting cold.”

“Let it,” said Mannering. He took a step towards her, and his left hand closed on her shoulder. “It’s time we stopped being mysterious. It’s time we talked — both of us.”

“Is it?” she temporised.

Mannering drew a deep breath. His grip on her shoulder tightened until it hurt, but she gave no sign.

“Lorna,” he said, and his voice quivered. “Please!”

She seemed to draw herself up, and he knew that she was making a big effort. She forced herself to speak at last, and she was smiling a little.

“I was almost sure,” she said, “after the robbery at the strong-room. That night, after I thought it over, I told myself you fitted into the man with the mackintosh, and that if the man had been what he seemed to be he wouldn’t have worried about taking the cases with my own jewels in. Obviously the man would have taken them.”

“But why obviously?”

“Because the cases were out of their usual positions, I realised that when Dad examined all the safes.”

Mannering smiled a little.

“It was a temptation,” he said.

“Not a big one, I think. That made me nearly sure of you. And then, John, there was the Kenton brooch; you took it all almost too calmly, as though you were laughing up your sleeve about it. Oh, there were a dozen little things that suggested it. And then there was the other afternoon” — her expression changed now, and he saw that she was thinking of something unpleasant, although he had no idea what it was — “when you handed over a thousand pounds in notes. It was unusual, to say the least. There was no reason why you should have had money like that at the flat . . .”

“I might have been to the races.”

“There were none near London, and in any case you hadn’t had time to get back from them. It wasn’t three o’clock when I came.”

“But still I don’t see,” said Mannering, a little helplessly, “how that could have made you think I was — a . . .”

The word “thief was on his lips, but she broke in quickly, before he uttered it.

“You were the Baron. I know. It wasn’t any single fact that made me think so. It was the combination of circumstances. And when I read about the burglary last night” — she motioned to the paper as she went on — “I realised that I’d known it was you all along.”

“Yet you stayed here last night?”

“I think I was more — amused — than anything else,” said Lorna very softly. “It is funny, John. You’ve a reputation for immense riches. Lucky Mannering, the man who never loses . . .”

“I’ve never heard that one,” said Mannering, a little ruefully, and with a sudden light-heartedness.

“It’s quite a general one,” she said. “And I can see how cleverly you’ve created the impression, my dear. It’s almost fool proof. Even Dad has no idea . . .”

“But you knew?”

Lorna nodded, and there was an expression in her eyes which tormented him.

“I know you,” she said very quietly. She laughed suddenly, and released her hand from his. And the breakfast,” she murmured.

“Damn the breakfast!” said Mannering. There’s something else you wanted to say, but which you’ve kept back. What is it?”

Lorna’s smiled disappeared as he stared into her eyes. The anxiety he had seen in her eyes before returned. Her lips parted a little, and she looked — afraid. It was the only suitable word he could find.

“Isn’t there?” he persisted, very quietly.

Lorna nodded slowly. She tried to speak, but the words would not come. Mannering’s mind was in a whirl as he waited. For the life of him he could understand nothing, could conceive of no reason for this sudden change in her manner. Yet he knew that she had been worried months ago. That time when they had talked of marriage — and had postponed it at her wish — came very vividly to him. The same something that had forced her to ask him to forget it was worrying her now, and was in some way connected with her need for money a few days before.

“Take your time,” he said.

“It’s so difficult,” began Lorna. . . .

And then someone tapped on the front-door.

The sound seemed to echo through the flat like a revolver-shot. The colour drained from Lorna’s face, and Mannering paled. Instinctively they looked towards the papers, with their glaring headlines, and the same fear was in each mind.

Mannering broke the tense silence as the knock came again more imperatively.

“I’ll go,” he said. “Keep out of sight.”

Lorna nodded, and turned away. Walking with his right arm stiff at his side, Mannering went to the door. His colour had returned, and he was laughing at himself. The knock might be from any casual caller — from a tradesman, from a friend. . . .

He opened the door, convinced that his fears were groundless; and the next moment he was facing the sprucely dressed Detective-Inspector Bristow!

CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO

BRISTOW MAKES A DISCOVERY

MANNERING FELT THE SHOCK RUN THROUGH HIM, AND HE believed he had betrayed himself. He could not repress the fear that came back, while he wondered whether it was possible that this call had nothing to do with the burglary. He told himself that it wasn’t, and felt the blood drain from his cheeks. There was a sudden change of expression on Bristow’s face, which had been creased in a pleasant enough smile.

Then Mannering sneezed.

He was used to the need for quick action, and he knew that suspicion would be sown in Bristow’s mind unless he explained the sudden change of expression. So the sneeze came quickly, and seemed natural. He had recovered by the time he looked up, and grinned an apology.

“Sorry, Inspector, sorry. That’s not much of a greeting.”

Bristow smiled, and offered his hand. Mannering was forced to respond. He felt the muscles of his shoulder tearing as he gripped the other’s hand, and he kept back a wince of pain. But if that was all there was to worry him he was safe enough.

Bristow stepped into the first room, making no immediate comment. Mannering felt completely at a loss, but he motioned to a chair, and pushed a box of cigarettes towards the detective.

Bristow took one with a nod, and lit it

“Thanks,” he said. Then he smiled a little, and half shrugged his shoulders. “Can you guess why I’ve come ?” he asked.

“I can’t,” confessed Mannering, sitting down at the table. He realised suddenly that it was laid for two, and that the detective would be bound to notice it, but he couldn’t worry about that now. “Unless it’s this . . .”

He tapped a paper lying front-page upward on the table, next to Lorna’s knife and fork.

Bristow nodded, and his expression was grim. Mannering streamed smoke towards the ceiling, trying to look unconcerned, and wondering whether he succeeded. The suspense of this meeting was getting unbearable, but Bristow was apparently waiting for him to speak again. He made an effort.

“You think it’s another Baron job ?”

“Not much doubt about it,” said Bristow. He crossed his legs and leaned back in his chair, looking at Mannering thoughtfully. Mannering was on edge; at any moment the policeman would see that second place at the table, a thought he could not get out of his mind. It affected Lorna, and Mannering meant to keep her name out of anything that might transpire — away from Bristow too, if it could be managed.

“Yes,” went on the policeman. “The blue mask was reported . . .”

“Blue mask?” Mannering frowned, and thought uncomfortably that the mask was within three yards of Bristow. “I don’t remember that . . .”

“I don’t think I ever mentioned it,” said Bristow. “One of the regulars who admitted teaching the Baron spoke of the blue mask. But that’s by the way. It’s one of his jobs all right, because ether gas was used, and” — Bristow was very grim as he went on — “I’ve had a dose of that from the gentleman. That was the only time I met him face-to-face.”

Mannering’s fears collapsed like a pricked balloon, and in their place came real exhilaration. The sudden laughter in his eyes looked like eagerness as he leaned forward.

“You’ve actually met him and never told me? You’re a close dog, Bristow!”

Bristow grunted, hardly knowing whether to be pleased or offended. He decided on the former.

“I wouldn’t recognise him again,” he said, looking absently round the room. “But that’s by the way, too. I came along” — he laughed a little and coloured — “because I thought a chat with you would do me good, Mannering. The A.C. will be short-tempered again, and I thought . . .”

Bristow stopped, and the pleasant expression went from his face. In that moment Mannering’s fears returned, only to lose themselves in anxiety for Lorna. That second place . . .

But the detective’s voice was very hard, and a warning that something had gone wrong ticked through Mannering’s mind.

“You’ve read about the business, of course?”

Mannering tried to assume that the other was evading the matter of the two places at the table. He nodded, and wished Bristow would stop looking. For the detective was still staring at the one spot, and there was an expression on his face that puzzled the cracksman.

“He was surprised by a watchman, wasn’t he?” he asked with a big effort. “There was some shooting . . .”

“There was one shot,” said Detective-Inspector Bristow in a curiously stilted voice. “It was from a Webley thirty-two, Mannering, and we can’t find the bullet. The obvious solution to that little problem is that it lodged in the Baron.”

“Yes,” said Mannering, and his mouth was dry. Bristow was dangerously near the truth now.

“So we think,” said Bristow.

He was still staring at the table. Mannering felt that he must make some comment, or some move, that would cause the detective to shift his gaze. Bristow wasn’t being discreet. He needn’t make it so pointed that he’d seen the two places.

Of course, thought Mannering, I’m all on edge, or I probably wouldn’t have noticed anything. But he is staring, there’s no doubt about it. Why?

He moved in his chair abruptly, and at last Bristow’s gaze shifted. Mannering, jerking his shoulder suddenly, winced with pain, and started to move his left hand towards the wound. He stopped quickly, but Bristow saw it.

“Hurt yourself?” asked the Inspector. His voice seemed a thousand miles away, as though he was in a world of his own.

“Slipped last night at the Ramon Ball,” said Mannering, with a short laugh. He was very wary, very much afraid. It almost seemed that Bristow knew something; the man was getting at him.