John Creasey - Meet The Baron

He swung round towards the girl, and his eyes were dancing with hope. But there was anxiety in his expression, for time was precious.

“I think we’ll do it,” he muttered. “I wish to heaven you weren’t here, my dear, but it’ll be best for you to stop now.”

Lorna nodded. She did not know why, but she accepted Mannering’s assurance without question. But there was one thing worrying her, and she pointed towards Bristow, who was lying at full length, still motionless.

“What about — him?”

Mannering could see the rise and fall of the detective’s chest, and he believed that the other would regain consciousness in a few minutes, none the worse for his knock-out, but very bad-tempered and with a stronger dislike of the Baron than ever.

“He’ll be all right,” he grunted. “The thing is — will Gerry get here first, or Tanker — the policeman? Oh, my dear . . .”

He broke off, white to the lips. There was a thud of heavy feet on the landing outside the front-door of the flat. Mannering’s face paled, but his voice was steady.

He held out the bullet to the girl.

“I’ll go,” he said. “If it’s the police get into the bedroom, wait for Gerry, and throw that down when he comes. I’ll keep them out — somehow.”

But he doubted whether he could. He knew that Sergeant Jacob (Tanker) Tring was a shrewd officer, and would have no hesitation in breaking into every room in the flat when he saw his superior lying unconscious; and if Tring got into the room in time to see Gerry Long outside the game was up.

As he turned the handle of the door he was wishing that he had let Lorna take the bullet out of the flat. She would have had time to get away; the proof would have been missing. But before he had opened the door he knew that he had done the only thing. It lessened the chance of dragging Lorna’s name through the mud, and if it was humanly possible that had to be avoided.

He pulled the door open, his face set to greet Tring.

And then he stood very still for a moment, staring at a large, solemn-faced man who was resting a heavy attaché-case on the floor, and who was proffering packets of note-paper and envelopes.

“Would you care to buy . . .” The man’s opening words came smoothly.

“I’ll make you a gift,” said Mannering, recovering from the surprise and acting quickly.

The man’s face brightened at the sight of a free half-crown, but darkened as the door was shut in his face abruptly. He pocketed the coin, and walked on to the next flat, shrugging his shoulders and lugging his case, knowing nothing of the alarm he had caused.

Mannering hurried towards Lorna, who was standing by the door. She had known from his words that it had been a false alarm. Quickly he explained, and went to the window anxiously. The alleyway along which Gerry Long would have to come was empty.

And then Mannering’s face hardened; this time there was no mistake.

He could just see into Brook Street, for his flat was near a corner, and he saw the police car, which was travelling at a generous forty miles an hour along the road. He recognised the dour face of Tanker Tring next to the driver, and he knew that the game was almost over.

Lorna saw his change of expression, and guessed why. Her eyes clouded, and for the life of her she could not have spoken.

“They’ll be here in a moment,” Mannering muttered. “I’ll give them a minute — no more. Why the hell doesn’t Long come?”

The question was useless. They waited and watched tensely, with their ears pricked to catch the slightest sound from the front of the flat. It was a matter of seconds now. Once the police arrived the chance was gone.

And then Mannering saw the thing he wanted most in the world just then. Gerry Long was hurrying along the alleyway and staring up at the window. The seconds passed like hours, and Mannering felt like a man possessed when the knock thundered on the front-door with the American barely within throwing-distance.

“Answer it,” Mannering said to Lorna very grimly.

Lorna moved away, fear clutching at her, a mad unreasoning fear that it was too late to save Mannering now. But Mannering, in that last tense moment, hardly noticed her. He saw that Long was hurrying, and he could see the anxiety on the American’s face. Long was in the small courtyard leading from the alley now. Mannering moved to the window, waved, and pressed a finger to his lips. He was trembling like a leaf as tossed the bullet down. Was it in time? . . .

Long waited below with his hands poised. The bullet dropped into them safely, and Mannering felt a tremendous relief. He was through!

And then Lorna’s voice came, raised in an agony of fear.

“John, be careful, be careful!”

Mannering swung round as the door was pushed open violently. He saw Bristow, conscious but wild-eyed, outlined in the doorway, and the policeman lunged towards him, cursing. Mannering stood back rigidly, watchfully, his face blank. Bristow saw the open window and guessed the rest. He leaped for the opening and stared out. In the distance he could see Gerry Long’s head and shoulders, but the American was too far away now to be recognised. But Bristow wasn’t finished. . . .

“I’ll get you,” he snapped. “Don’t make any mistake about that, Mannering.”

As he spoke he leaped towards the window.

Mannering knew what the other was going to do. The one chance that remained for Bristow to get the bullet was to catch the man who was running away. The one way to start was through the window; seconds counted, as much for the one man as the other.

Bristow hesitated for the fraction of a second to reconnoitre the position. There was no fire-escape near him, but immediately beneath the window was a Y-shaped drainpipe that offered a slender hold. Had Bristow not been groggy and aware only of the desperate need for catching the man in the alley he might have thought twice about trying to get down that way.

He hardly hesitated, however, and flung one leg over the sill. He rested his loot on the drain-pipe, and then lowered himself. Mannering realised the danger, and cried out in genuine alarm.

“Steady, Bristow — steady!”

And then Bristow slipped. Mannering heard a crack! and he knew in a flash that the drain-pipe had broken.

For a sickening moment Mannering thought that the other was over. It was a long drop to the courtyard below, a drop on to solid concrete, and there could be only one end if Bristow went down. Tragedy loomed in front of him. . . .

Then he saw the tips of the detective’s fingers on the window-ledge. He was at the window in two strides, and for a moment he forgot the wound in his shoulder; he had to. He leaned out and gripped the other’s left wrist as Bristow’s precarious hold was loosened. Every thought but that o. saving the detective was out of his mind now.

The full weight of Bristow’s body was thrown on Mannering’s injured shoulder. The pain stabbed through him, agonising, excruciating. For a moment he was afraid that he could not hold on. Sweat covered his forehead, and his teeth gritted against one another. But he hung on, with Bristow dangling below; and slowly he manoeuvred his left hand to the support of his right.

Grunting with pain, conscious only of the one task, he kept his hold. The pain seemed to be running through his whole body now, and he was wet with sweat. Bristow seemed to grow heavier as the seconds dragged by, but he came no higher. Then his wrist slipped an inch. . . .

Mannering groaned.

He didn’t see the door open, or Tanker Tring, with his face set in alarm, in the doorway. Tring gulped — and then he moved rapidly towards the window, taking the situation in at a glance. He leaned out, fastening his hands round Bristow’s wrists below Mannering’s. Mannering eased his hold, and stumbled back into the room, while Tanker raised his stentorian voice for the other men who had come with him. They were already in the room, but Mannering, leaning against the wall, didn’t see them as they hurried across; nor did he see the three of them haul Bristow up, slowly but easily.

Mannering felt like death.

His face was chalk-white. His eyes were closed, his breath was coming unsteadily. Lorna Fauntley, terrified in case the effort to get rid of the bullet had failed, hardly daring to look into the room, forced herself to enter, and saw Mannering.

Concern drove the fear from her eyes. She went forward quickly, and Mannering heard her voice, as if from a long way off.

“It’s all right, John — all right . . .”

Then Mannering fainted.

Almost at the same moment the policemen by the window dragged Bristow into the room. Tanker Tring was wondering what in heaven’s name had happened, but he concentrated on taking charge of the situation as it was. He found a decanter of whisky and poured a generous portion between Bristow’s lips. He grunted as his superior spluttered and coughed, and absent-mindedly tasted the spirits. He’d learn everything soon enough.

CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE

BRISTOW DISLIKES HIS JOB

DETECTIVE-INSPECTOR WILLIAM BRISTOW LOOKED MOROSELY at his sergeant, but said nothing. Tring was eaten up with curiosity, but he knew when to ask questions and when to keep silent. He stared idly at the half-empty decanter.

Bristow muttered something inaudible under his breath.

The two detectives who had helped in his rescue had gone back to the Yard, with the woman-detective. Bristow knew that it was useless to look for the bullet now. He didn’t feel that he wanted to look for the bullet. He remembered the terrible moment when he had dangled over the window-ledge, and he remembered the relief that had surged through him when Mannering had gripped him. And then, when he had recovered well enough to take charge, he had seen Mannering stretched out on the floor, and he had seen the pool of blood from the wound which had reopened in the Baron’s shoulder.

Bristow was a man, as well as a policeman. He knew that he had been saved from death — or at least from severe injuries — by Mannering’s efforts, and he could guess how much those efforts had cost the other man. And yet. . .

Mannering was the Baron.

Bristow grunted again. He was a policeman, and a policeman had no right to allow sentiment of any kind to interfere with his duty. He knew that Mannering was the Baron, and that in that flat there was enough to prove it. The bullet might be missing, but the jewels would still be there.

That bitterness he had felt towards Mannering because of the ease with which the other had outwitted him and duped him was gone. It was a straightforward job of being a policeman that remained, but it was the most distasteful one that he had ever experienced; nevertheless it had to be done.

He got up suddenly and started to speak. Before he had said two words, however, Lorna Fauntley came out of the bedroom. Her face was pale, her tone almost listless.

“He’ll have to have a doctor,” she said.

Bristow motioned to the telephone. Tanker, not unaware of the woman’s beauty, clambered up with rather clumsy courtesy and muttered: “I’ll get one along, miss.”

Bristow stared at the girl, who eyed him more than a little wearily.

“Well?” she said.

“I don’t like it,” muttered Bristow, “but it’s got to be done. Did he bring a case with him last night?”

Lorna’s lip tightened obstinately. Bristow passed a hand across his forehead.

“For heaven’s sake don’t make it difficult!” he snapped. “It’ll be the same in the long run. We’re bound to find it.”

She hesitated, and then nodded. Her voice was dull.