John Creasey - Meet The Baron

“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!”

CHAPTER ELEVEN

MARIE OVERNDON ’ S WEDDING

“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 interests; 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 brain-wave. 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,” 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 . . .”

“H’m,” 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 o; 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.

He stopped reflecting as Bristow went on.

“Very thorough, like most Americans. This man Wagnall — the father, not the son — has asked us for a guard, and he’s using Dorman’s Agency too. The presents will be nearly as safe as the Grown Jewels.”

“Nearly?” questioned Mannering, easing himself in his chair,

Bristow scowled, and rubbed his chin.

“I’m not happy about the Baron,” he said. “He’s slick. We’ve got to admit that.”

Mannering nodded, and had difficulty in repressing the “thank you” that came to his lips.

“There’s one thing,” said Bristow more cheerfully, “which suggests that he won’t try anything at the wedding. He’s never tried anything big.”

“Yet,” said Mannering, and thought suddenly of Lorna Fauntley.

Bristow’s scowl returned.

“That’s what I’m worried about,” he admitted. “I’m afraid he will, one day.”

Mannering decided that it was wise to hedge away from that angle of the affair, and he lost no time.

“What makes you think there might be trouble at the Overndon show?” he demanded. “It’s not the only wedding; the Chunnley affair and the Forsters. . . .”

“It’s the publicity,” said Bristow. “You’ll find the Overndon wedding at the top of every social column. The others are also-rans. And some of the gifts . . .”

“Asking for trouble, are they?” murmured Mannering sympathetically.

“Yes,” said Bristow, “but, as I say, I’ve got to admit that they’re taking every possible precaution. Er-you’ll be there, of course ?”

“It can be arranged,” said Mannering.

“I’d be awfully glad if you will,” said Bristow.

Mannering nodded, and stood up. They shook hands, before a uniformed man showed Mannering out of the office, led him along the passages of the Yard, and guided him eventually into Parliament Street. The sergeant treated him with considerable respect, for friends of Detective-Inspector William Bristow were men of importance at Scotland Yard.

Mannering gathered that impression, and told himself that he mattered in more ways than one. He wondered, not for the first time, what Bristow would look like if ever he discovered the truth.

At that moment Mannering wasn’t worried about the possibility of discovery. He felt safer than the Bank of England as he called a taxi and made his way to the Elan to celebrate the occasion, he told himself cheerfully. He was on top of the world that day.