John Creasey - Meet The Baron

He pushed the question to the back of his mind and moved from his chair. The pass-books which Lee’s emissary had once been so anxious to take revealed a sum of nine hundred pounds, which, with the two hundred on the desk, made a total of eleven hundred. It was enough for the moment, but it meant that he was living hand-to-mouth. He was back where he had been a few days ago.

For the hundredth time he wondered how he could dispose of the Rosa pearls, and for the hundredth time he determined to let them wait for a while; they were too warm yet. The next problem, then, was to find another likely victim, and a haul he could turn into cash quickly.

Mannering grimaced. By now he almost disliked the cold-bloodedness of his life of crime. It was as distasteful in some ways as it was exciting in others. But he would go on now until he had made enough to retire on; so much was certain. He tried to fix a figure, but he realised the uselessness of it. His expenses in a year’s time might be doubled or trebled — unless, of course, he slipped up on a job and spent a few years in gaol. The prospect, instead of making him hesitate, cheered him. There was a zest in danger that made up for everything else.

He ran through the list of his social engagements for the next two weeks. The only events of note would be the Faundey dinner — Lord Fauntley held an annual affair that outshone all rivals in the matter of celebrities and luxuriousness — and the Ramon Ball. The Fauntley affair was out of it; Mannering was still determined not to make any raid on the peer’s strong-room, for the guard would be stronger than ever now.

That left the Ramon Ball.

Carlos Ramon was a South American cattle-owner who had taken by storm that part of London which was primarily money-conscious. The wealth of the Ramons was almost legendary. Carlos himself owned the largest fleet of cattle-boats in South America, and it was said that his herds of cattle rivalled the possessions of the biggest Anglo-American companies. Mannering knew the man slightly, and neither liked nor disliked him.

Carlos Ramon — Senor Carlos, Mannering recalled with a smile — had an imposing presence, a brick-red face, handsome after a fashion, with the inevitable moustache, black, greased, and pointed at the ends, and an extremely pretty wife. His wife was Spanish, without the aloofness usually credited to her race; she was, Mannering knew, perilously near a coquette. He knew, too, that Carlotta’s beauty and Carlos’s money had captured London, and the Ramon Ball, to take place four days after the visit of Lorna Faundey to

Mannering’s flat, was a farewell party; the South Americans were returning to their native land, and London was giving them a send-off; or they were bidding London a warm good-bye.

In any case the assembly would be a positive rodeo of the rich, while most of the women would outdo — or try to outdo — one another with their jewels. The prospect was inviting; there would be hundreds of thousands of pounds” worth there.

Mannering muttered to himself very suddenly as an idea came into his mind.

“You fool!” he said. “Oh, you fool!” And he smiled.

“After going to all that trouble, and suffering as you’re doing,” said Lorna Fauntley sympathetically, “there are two other costumes almost exactly alike. Poor John!”

“At least I’ve the imagination not to come as a harlequin,” said Mannering, not without point.

Lorna laughed lightly.

She had chosen, a little daringly, to dress as a Spanish dancer, and the daring, in the opinion of a few of the plainer revellers, was due to the fact that the hostess was the obvious choice for that costume. Happily Carlotta Ramon had preferred to be a Fragonard shepherdess, and Lorna was conspicuous — and distinguished; Mannering told himself that she was head-and-shoulders above the others.

Mannering’s Charles the Second was triplicated at the New Arts Hall, a fact which Lorna had been deploring. She could not know that Jimmy Randall and Colonel Belton had confided to him their choice of dress, and that he had used that knowledge deliberately.

So he laughed, and scoffed at her.

They danced together before a cavalier claimed his privilege and whirled Lorna away from Mannering. He found himself dancing with a Columbine whose eyes behind her mask suggested nervousness. He put her at her ease, but was glad that she slipped away when the music stopped. He wanted no ties for the moment.

He edged towards an exit, watching the glittering throng that had gathered together to honour the Ramons, trying to make sure that he was unobserved.

Here and there he recognised someone whom he knew, but for the most part the costumes and the masks contrived to hide the identity of the dancers. The little added zest that invariably accompanied London balls when they were inspired by a foreigner was very much in evidence. The music was a little mad; the costumes were frequendy exotic, the laughter unforced, but helped with wines.

Mannering looked at the great decorated clock in the centre of the ceiling and saw that it was eleven o’clock. That left an hour before the masks would be removed and recognition assured. One hour to work in. It was little enough time.

He slipped towards a cloakroom, staring at the floor as he went. Casual acquaintances passed him without recognising him. His luxuriant wig, rouged cheeks, and high cravat afforded excellent disguise, but he was glad when he reached the privacy of a cubicle without hearing his name uttered. He was flushed a little, and his eyes were gleaming.

From the main hall the strains of the music were floating. He smiled as he slipped out of his costume and revealed that of a harlequin beneath. The latter had been comfortable to wear, and no one at the New Arts Hall knew that he had two costumes; nor if they had known would they have guessed why.

He lit a cigarette, donned his mask, and left the cloakroom, carrying his overcoat and his top-hat over his arm. He reached the first exit from the building, glanced out, saw half a dozen commissionaires and attendants, but felt certain that he could get away unhindered and unrecognised.

That rush of excitement which had possessed him several times before on the start of a haul made his heart thump, and he was more impatient than usual.

Looking neither right nor left, he went from the building. In Queen’s Road he beckoned the first passing taxi. He jumped in quickly, shouting an address: “Twenty-seven Crown Street, cabby, and hurry, will you?”

The voice was no more like Mannering’s than Mr Mayle’s was. The driver shrugged at the unnecessary haw-haw, slipped in his clutch, and made quick time. Outside the dark shape of No. 27 Crown Street, W.i, Mannering left the taxi, paid the driver without tipping him extravagantly, and watched the cab disappear into the shadows. Then he turned away.

A strange, almost unnatural silence filled the air.

In the distance the hum of the traffic could be heard, but

Crown Street was quiet and secluded. A long, narrow thoroughfare, it was useless as a short-cut for motor traffic, and at night only the local people and an occasional policeman traversed it.

Mannering looked at his watch, to find that it was twenty minutes past eleven.

“He should be here,” he muttered, and from the fact that he was talking aloud realised his own tense excitement. He waited, pricking his ears to catch the wanted sound. It came at last — the heavy tread of the policeman he expected.

Mannering had been in this street three nights in succession. He had discovered the policeman’s usual time, and he knew that between eleven-twenty and eleven-fifty only a casual wayfarer would pass by; once the man had gone he could start his job.

He waited beneath the shadows of a spreading tree. The policeman walked on ponderously, without flashing his lantern. Mannering watched him disappear, and then turned towards the tree, a tight smile on his lips.

He had studied the tree and garden beyond, and the narrow passage beyond that. He had climbed the tree on the previous night, and he knew just how long it would take him to get to the end of the passage. Never again, he told himself, would he start a thing without ample preparation.

The sound of the policeman’s footsteps died away. No other came. Mannering climbed the tree quickly, a task made easier by several knots which stood out from the trunk. From the first branch it was a simple matter to jump over the wall into the garden of 27 Crown Street. He landed lightly, and grinned to himself more freely as he went through that garden.

Every taxi-driver who had taken a fare from the neigh-bourhood of the New Arts Hall would be questioned on the following morning, but no one would suspect that the man who wanted the Crown Street house was connected with a robbery which had taken place at Queen’s Walk, a quarter of a mile away from Crown Street. Actually the garden and the passage took him to Queen’s Walk in thirty seconds, but the policeman who realised it would have to be smart.

The Walk was lit by occasional street-lamps, and the unwinking side-lights of two stationary cars broke through the darkness. Mannering slipped into the doorway of the first house past the passage and slid a pick-lock into the keyhole.

It was an old-fashioned lock, and gave little trouble, for the picking of a lock came easily now. Mannering pushed the door open as the lock clicked back. He went inside quickly, and closed the door. For a moment he waited in the hall, but no sound came. The house seemed empty.

It was, he believed, and he smiled as he recalled the flash of inspiration that had told him that the house, rather than the ballroom, was the best place at which to make an attempt.

Rented by Carlos Ramon for his six months” sojourn in England, the place was deserted for that night, when Ramon and his wife were at the Ball; the servants, Mannering knew, had permission to be out. He had prepared for the possibility of meeting a caretaker, but he doubted whether Ramon would have taken that precaution.

Mannering hurried up the stairs, flashing a small electric torch to guide him. His rubber-soled shoes made no sound on the oak landing as he reached it, and his face was covered with the thin blue mark that he used as much to enable him to merge into a general scheme of darkness as for a disguise.

Silently he went along the landing. The first three doors he passed were unlocked, and he went on, but the third refused to open when he turned the handle.

He stopped, and the pick-lock slid into the keyhole. Two or three dexterous twists made the lock click back. He opened the door very quickly and stepped into the room. The moment was near now.

From two windows he could see a dim light streaming, light from the street-lamps. He hurried to the windows, experimented with the blinds, and discovered with relief that they were of the roller type. He lowered them silently, and then looked round quickly.

There was a slight perfume in the air, and he smiled, needing no telling that Carlotta Ramon had dressed in here a few hours before. He flashed his light on to the dressing-table, and from one of the drawers a few small trinkets rewarded him. He opened each drawer quickly and silently, finding a diamond brooch and an emerald pendant which made his eyes glisten. But he had no time to gloat over his success. He closed the drawers, left the dressing-table, and hurried to the walls, where he hoped to find bigger game. He lifted each picture, finding the safe behind a large oil-painting opposite the door.

He worked on it, quickly, patiently, efficiently.

Now that he was actually at work the excitement had cooled. He knew that he was fighting against time, and he could not afford to fumble. Within ten minutes he must be out of the house, together with the contents of the safe . . .