John Creasey - Meet The Baron

The first stroke of twelve was echoing through the building from that gigantic ceiling-clock as Mannering entered the ballroom and merged in with the throng of revellers. As luck would have it he saw Lorna a few yards away, and made towards her.

Jimmy Randall’s cheerful voice came to his ears before he reached the woman.

“My dress is more accurate than yours,” said that worthy cheerfully. “Warm enough, J. M. ?”

“My dress keeps me cool,” grinned Mannering.

He reached Lorna’s side as the girl took off her mask. All around people were laughing, partners for the evening were taking stock of their companions. Carlos and Carlotta Ramon were standing on a dais beneath the clock, looking thoroughly pleased with themselves. Mannering wondered what Ramon would look like when he heard the news of the burglary, but that didn’t matter. The fact that he was sale was the thing.

“So you’ve left that girl in red?” said Lorna laughingly.

Mannering chuckled to himself. He needed no further proof of the wisdom of wearing the same costume as Randall and Colonel Belton. Lorna would be ready to swear, if necessary, that she had seen him in the hall all the evening, and he would want no better witness.

“Of course,” he said lightly.

And then the lights of that great hall seemed to dim, and there was a mist in front of Mannering’s eyes. He heard Lorna’s sharp exclamation of alarm, and felt her arm round him, firm and friendly.

“John — John — what is it?”

The room seemed to be swaying. Mannering held on to his companion for dear life, knowing that he would fall if he didn’t. He gritted his teeth. Every ounce of self-control that he had went into one great effort to regain his balance before others besides Lorna noticed that anything was wrong. He managed to smile, and found his voice.

“I’m — all — right,” he muttered. “A bit hot. Let’s get to the side.”

Lorna nodded, and gave him her arm. His shoulder was numb now, and he hardly realised the pain in it. But he reached a bar, just off the main hall, and took a whisky-and-soda gratefully. It burned through him with new life, and he forced a smile that did little to ease Lorna’s concern.

“I can’t see what you look like,” she said. “That rouge hides everything. You’re sure you’re all right?”

Mannering laughed now, feeling that he could carry on.

“A hundred per cent,” he assured her.

And then he saw the brilliant crimson sash that swung across Lorna’s shoulders. He saw the damp patch on it, and knew that it was blood — his blood. He stared, unable to keep his eyes away.

Lorna saw the red patch on his costume at the same time.

She went very pale, but said nothing as she bent towards him, so that the waiter could not see the shoulder and its ominous patch of blood. Mannering warmed towards her as she smiled.

“We’ll get out as soon as we can,” she said. “Mother’s leaving just after twelve, and so are some of the others. It’ll look natural enough. Get back and change, my dear.”

Mannering smiled at her in a gratitude he could not have expressed in words. She had asked no questions, revealed no excitement, but only anxiety; he knew that without her he must have been lost.

But this was something he must explain.

“My dear man,” said Lorna, a quarter of an hour later, “I’m coming back to your flat with you to patch you up.”

“Not at this hour,” muttered Mannering. He was standing by a taxi, one of a hundred drawn up outside the New Arts Hall. The first streams of home-going revellers were crowding the pavements, mostly older folk, but sprinkled here and there with an occasional younger couple. Mannering, in evening-dress, looked no different from the others, but his arm was throbbing badly now, and he was anxious to get away.

“You haven’t half the sense you get credit for,” said Lorna tersely. She beckoned a taxi and gave his Brook Street address. He smiled as he entered the cab, knowing that he could not dissuade her; he wasn’t sure whether he wanted to.

Less than twenty minutes after he was standing in his bathroom stripped to the waist, and Lorna was examining the wound with a keen, almost professional eye. She was cool, and completely unflurried.

“You’re lucky,” she said. “Or I think you are. It’s not touched the bone.”

“It feels as though it’s broken a dozen,” said Mannering ruefully. “It’ll heal all right.”

“You’ll need a doctor, said Lorna quickly.

Mannering turned towards her. There was a smile on his lips and an expression which she could not understand as he answered.

“That’s ruled right out,” he said.

She stared at him for a moment uncertainly. He could see that she was burning to ask questions, but for the moment he could not bring himself to talk of the night’s adventure. He was racking his brains to find a genuine explanation — or at least one to sound genuine. It seemed impossible. She was very shrewd, he knew; and he judged that she would be able to tell whether he was lying. So tor the time being he said nothing.

“So you don’t want to call a doctor,” she said, half to herself, and her eyes were dark, mysterious, probing. “Well — I can just see the bullet beneath the skin.”

Mannering said nothing.

“And it I try to get it out,” said Lorna, “it’s going to be painful for you and a nasty job for me.”

Mannering hesitated.

“I’ll manage it myself,” he said finally, “really . . .”

Lorna smiled; the shadows went from her eyes as she rested her hand on his arm.

“You’re a complete idiot,” she said. “Will you grit your teeth? I’ll try it.”

Mannering nodded. For a moment his fingers closed round her arm in an answering gesture of trust. She spoke quietly, as though afraid of sentiment.

“It’s lucky I’m not likely to faint at the sight of blood,” she said. “Turn towards the light, my dear . . .”

The next three minutes seemed like days, but Mannering knew that they might have been a great deal worse. Lorna, tight-lipped, probed with a knife at the dark patch she believed to be the bullet. The bullet it was, and very close to the skin. She levered it out, as she would have done a splinter, and then put it on a shelf.

“You’d better get rid of that.”

Mannering nodded, and sat down wearily on the side of the bath. He felt weak and very tired. Still very practical, Lorna bandaged the wound, after bathing it, and he was amazed at the comfort now.

“Get to bed,” she said quietly. “I’ll stay until morning.”

Mannering shook his head quickly as she spoke.

“You can’t,” he said. “It’s asking for trouble.”

“My folk will think I’m at Chelsea,” said Lorna, with a little smile. And then she caught his hands in hers. “John — don’t argue, please. It’s my turn now to help.”

Very slowly the smile returned to Mannering’s lips.

CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE

A KNOCK ON THE DOOR

AT HALF-PAST EIGHT NEXT MORNING LORNA FAUNTLEY stirred in her chair and opened her eyes.

She had wrapped a blanket round her on the previous night, after making sure that Mannering was sleeping soundly, and had dozed fitfully during the small hours. Towards morning she had dropped into a deeper sleep, and she was surprised when she saw the time. The momentary bewilderment at her strange surroundings disappeared. She pushed the blanket away, switched on the electric kettle, which she had filled overnight, and hurried into the bathroom. A quick wash refreshed her, and she was smiling as she set the cups on a tray, collected the milk from outside the front door of the flat, and then tiptoed into Mannering’s room.

He was still sleeping soundly, and she could tell from the colour of his face that he was not suffering unduly from the wound. She knew that he had a constitution strong enough to stand the strain, and the anxiety she had felt concerning his well-being disappeared.

She smiled very softly as she looked at him.

His face was dark against the pillow, and his features seemed more clearly marked than usual. There was something in him which seemed almost part of her.

She smiled a little bitterly at the thought, and her eyes clouded, but they cleared a moment later as Mannering stirred suddenly and opened his eyes. He blinked up, and there was something absurdly funny about his expression as he saw her. She laughed unrestrainedly at his bewilderment.

Memory of the previous night’s affair jumped back into Mannering’s mind. He moved up, then flinched as pain streaked through his shoulder.

“Steady,” said Lorna quickly.

He grinned ruefully, and stretched his left hand towards his waistcoat, where he could find cigarettes.

“It’s a rotten bad habit, smoking first-thing in the morning,” said Lorna.

“There are lots of bad habits,” said Mannering, taking a cigarette and lighting it, one-handed. He looked uncertain of himself. “So you ar e still here,” he said at last.

Lorna laughed.

“I’m afraid so,” she said. “If you knew what you looked like, my dear, you’d have a shock. But sit there for a while until I make tea.”

When she re-entered the room five minutes later Mannering had pulled a comb through his hair, and was comparatively wide-awake. His uncertainty had disappeared, and he looked completely in control of himself.

He drank the tea gratefully, before saying much. Then: “I suppose,” he said, looking at her quizzically, that I ought to start some explanation ?”

Lorna shook her head. Her lips tightened, and she smiled with her eyes.

“No,” she said. “You asked no questions the other day. I’m asking none now. I just want to say, John . . .”

She paused. Mannering’s eyes were very soft.

“Be careful, my dear,” she added, and her voice trembled.

Mannering managed to laugh a little.

“I’ll try,” he said.

“And now” — she was serious again, and practical; the moments of sentiment passed quickly with her, he knew — “I’ll have another look at your shoulder, and we’ll get some breakfast. That’s if you can eat . . .”

“It’s time you went,” said Mannering. “It would look nasty, Lorna, if anything — anyone . . .”

“It’s too early,” said Lorna decisively. “They’ll think I’m at Chelsea, I tell you.”

“Supposing they ring you, and get no answer?”

“That won’t be any change.” She was tugging at the left arm of his pyjama-jacket. “They’re used to getting no answer when I’m at the studio. Am I going to look at your shoulder, or are you going to be awkward ?”

Mannering gave in, knowing that he would have to eventually.

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.