John Creasey - Meet The Baron

The lids of his large, slant-set eyes were a little lower, if anything, than on the previous day, but otherwise he looked the same, was dressed the same, and smiled as invitingly.

“Clever,” murmured Mannering to himself, “and cool. I’d give half the Rosa pearls, nevertheless, to know what’s going on in his mind.”

He spoke amiably, however.

“Well, Mr Lee. Need we use a theoretical basis for discussion to-day, or can we . . .”

Lee waved his hands.

“We understand each other, understand each other perfectly, Mr Mannering. But for one unfortunate mishap our deal could be completed to-day . . .”

Mannering’s brow went up.

“Mishap?” he questioned.

“Regrettably, yes.” Septimus Lee lifted his hands, chin-high, and shrugged his shoulders, but there was no quiver in his voice. “I had — er — visitors last night, Mr Mannering.”

Lee paused. Mannering’s eyes widened, his lace-muscles relaxed. The suggestion of incredulity he created was convincing even from Septimus Lee’s point of view.

“Visitors?” His voice was hard. You mean someone made a better offer than mine?”

“No offer at all,” said Lee. “I was robbed.”

“Robbed?” Mannering uttered the single word with emphatic scepticism.

“Yes — last night of all nights,” said the Jew softly.

A frown crossed Mannering’s lace. His chin was a shade more aggressive than it had been a minute before, and his voice was harder.

“If this is what you call bargaining finesse, Mr Lee, I’m sorry you take me for that sort of mug. I’m disappointed in you.”

Lee smiled, and once more Mannering was forced to admire him.

“A very natural supposition,” said the Jew, “but an erroneous one, Mr Mannering. However, as I cannot show you the Rosa pearls, there is little point in continuing the interview.”

“Look here” — Mannering realised that he could not stress his disbelief too much — “I’m willing to go a little higher with my offer. Shall we say thirteen thousand pounds, and make the deal ?”

“I can quite understand your point of view,” said Septimus Lee, “and I sympathise with you. You are a collector, and you reckoned to have a rare — a unique — piece; but you have been balked. My apologies could not be more sincere, Mr Mannering, but I was robbed.”

Mannering stared at him for a moment, and then rubbed his chin ruefully.

“Damn it,” he said, “I believe it’s the truth after all! But, hang it, Mr Lee, only you and I and one other in England knew of the existence of the necklace. It seems absurd . . .”

“My own mpression exactly,” said Lee. His tone was silky, and there was an undercurrent of something in his voice which Mannering did not understand. Yet robbed I was. Of course others may have heard the same rumour as you. And now, if you will excuse me . . .”

Mannering shrugged, smiled, picked up his hat and gloves, and was ushered out of the office by the clerk, who had arrived in answer to Lee’s ring. That was over.

“Now what,” asked Mannering of himself as he walked into the Strand beneath the white glare of the sun does Mr Lee know — or guess ? I’m not happy in my mind about that man. And there was something different about him to-day. He was keeping himself in check, of course, but there was something else.”

Two things happened in the next two minutes that told Mannering what he wanted to know. They were both innocent things, and directly connected with each other, but connected in no way with the Baron or Septimus Lee. But . . .

“Middie speshais!” bellowed a newspaper-seller in his ear.

“Midday specials,” came another voice, a few moments later.

The difference in the two voices was ludicrous. Mannering looked at both men. The one was old, sharp-featured, and dressed in dirty rags; the other was younger dressed poorly but neatly, and with a rather intelligent lace; disillusioned perhaps, but intelligent.

“As different to look at,” he thought, “as they sounded different. Sounded different . . .”

He bought a Standard from the younger man and walked on, smiling. Had it been later in the day the news-seller might have wondered how much Mannering had won, for he looked pleased with himself and with life. He was pleased. The voice of Septimus Lee. that day, had been different from the voice on the previous day. There had been little or no accent, while before there had been a definite Jewish inflection, more difficulty with the w ’s and s’s .

“So he changes his voice,” thought Mannering, “to suit himself. Strange.”

Half an hour later he thought it stranger still.

He was looking at the Rosa pearls, wondering how to dispose of them and whether it was the genuine string. He was faced immediately with two of the major problems of his new life — how to sell what he had stolen, and how to make sure that he had genuine stones, not artificial ones.

There was a connection between the two problems, he knew. Once he found a reliable buyer — or fence — he would also find a reliable judge — a man who would not purchase dud stuff as the genuine article. It was not altogether satisfactory, but for the time being it would serve.

He remembered Flick Leverson, who had purchased one or two small trinkets from him before his. Flick’s, unfortunate apprehension by Bill Bristow.

“I can take the small stuff,” Flick had told him, “but if you ever get any big stuff don’t try me; try Levy Schmidt.”

Mannering had smiled at the time, for Levy had recommended Flick. Moreover, he had been warned by several gentlemen of the fraternity to avoid Levy Schmidt like the plague. Levy was reputed to be a police-informer. Mannering had said as much.

“He’s a snout,” Flick Leverson had admitted, “on the little boys, bo’. He puts the dicks on to the rats while he gets away with the big boys himself. You take my word for it. Levy Schmidt’s all right if your stuff’s big.”

Mannering had tried Levy out with the Kenton brooch. Contrary to Detective-Inspector Bristow’s belief. Levy had not given the tweed-capped man away; he had played a part, suggested by Mannering, that had completely hoodwinked the detective. In other words. Flick Leverson had been right.

Mannering naturally thought of Levy Schmidt in connection with the Rosa pearls. Levy would probably refuse to part with more than live thousand pounds for them, but at that time Mannering’s exchequer was in sad need of replenishment. He would rather sell to Levy at half the value (illegal value) of the pearls, and get his cash immediately, than wait until he found someone with whom he could deal direct. In any event, direct dealing in a case like this might have unforeseen results; it was foolish to take undue risks.

“Levy it is,” said Mannering, leaving the pearls on the table while he brewed himself tea at the service-flat which he used as a place of retreat. John Mannering, man-about-town, lived at the Elan Hotel, for the sake of his reputation.

“Levy it shall be,” he said, as he drank the tea. “Levy to-night,” he murmured tunefully, for he was still very pleased with the success of his raid on the previous night.

And then he became very thoughtful.

At eight o’clock that night a man in a tweed cap waited near Levy Schmidt’s pawnshop in the Mile End Road until the pawnbroker, grey and bent and weary-looking, left his shop, locked it, and began to walk slowly towards the nearest tram-stop. The man in the tweed cap followed him, even on to a tram travelling towards Aldgate. At Aldgate Levy clambered off it awkwardly, and the man with the tweed cap jumped off in time to see Levy disappear into that most unlikely of places — the Oriem Turkish Baths.

The man in the tweed cap waited on a corner opposite the baths, from where he could see both entrances to the building. Twice a policeman viewed him suspiciously, and once he looked frankly into the constable’s face, to avoid suspicion.

“Fixture, ain’t I ?” he said. “She works over there. Oughter be out soon.”

The bobby smiled to himself sentimentally and walked on.

Ten minutes later a Daimler car drew up outside the Oriem Turkish Baths, chauffeured by a burly man in a peaked cap and a blue uniform. Five minutes later still Mr Septimus Lee left the Oriem Turkish Baths and hurried to the Daimler. The Daimler moved off into the stream of traffic going towards the City.

“Now that,” muttered the man in the tweed cap, pulling its peak farther over his face and slouching towards a bus, apparently forgetful of “she”, “is a beautiful piece of luck. If you don’t do well at this game, J.M., it’ll be your own darned fault.”

For Septimus Lee and Levy Schmidt were one and the same!

Mannering had made a list of receivers of stolen goods — known in the vernacular as “fences” and by Flick Leverson’s more up-to-date colloquialism as “smashers” — supplied by that philosophical fence, for Flick had realised that it was possible he would be nobbled, and his fears had been justified. Mannering had little desire to try these men with the stuff — or, to use Flick’s term again, the “sparks” — that was being watched for by the police. Others besides Levy

Schmidt might be informers on big stuff or small; and, n any case, he could not expect such co-operation from them as he had received from Levy.

His discovery of the Jew’s dual personality intrigued him. The man’s cunning was astonishing — and too thorough, the Baron decided, to be matched — yet.

As pawnbroker and fence Lee would be waiting warily for the Rosa pearls; as the financial head of the Severell Trust he would probably be watching Mannering carefully. Mannering was not, in those first months, sure enough of the effectiveness of his tweed-cap disguise, even with variations, to try it out again with Lee as Levy. So it had to be someone else.

Mannering decided to try a warehouse-owner by the name of Grayson, a pink-and-white doll of a man with a devastating bass voice. Grayson controlled two or three coastal steamers which disgorged goods at his East End warehouse and carried other cargoes to the North of England and occasionally to Holland. He was able to smuggle stolen goods from one country to the other, and Flick Leverson had said: “He’ll swindle you. Levy’s a tight swine, but Grayson will do you down worse than Levy. But he’s straight.”

A tribute, Mannering had thought, to the honour among thieves that he would put to the test.

Three days later the robbery at Septimus Lee’s house a swarthy, big muscled man visited the warehouse offices of Grayson — Dicker Grayson — and asked for the boss. In view of the many sides to his business Grayson made a point of interviewing all callers, and the big-muscled man was admitted to his private office.

“Well?” boomed Grayson. “What d’you want? A job?”

The other shook his head. His brown eyes — hazel eyes — looked sullen, and he spoke gruffly and awkwardly, as though suffering from a slight impediment. He looked a man who was frightened of a coming trick, and certainly no one — not even Randall — would have recognised him as John Mannering.

“No,” he muttered; “I’ve come from Flick. Know Flick?”

Grayson’s little eyes narrowed. His pump hands tightened on the arms of his chair, for he knew a man from Flick Leverson could mean only one thing.

Mannering was conscious of a keen scrutiny; Grayson was at once trying to remember whether he had ever seen him before and making sure that he would always recognise him in the future. Beneath that pink-and-white face and those small puffy eyes was a mind at once shrewd and alert.