John Creasey - Meet The Baron

Was it? Fauntley could stand the loss.

“Where is she?” muttered Fauntley irritably. “Damn it, Mannering, you know my eyes aren’t what they were.”

“Still second,” said Mannering, “and turning into the straight! Ah! Simmons is touching her. Good boy, Simmons ! She’ll do it.”

The excitement of the finish stirred him now. Feodora and Marriland pounded along the hard track, with the rest of the bunch fighting for third place. The murmur of the crowd was fiercer now, and the sea of white faces turned towards the two horses. Feodora’s jockey was using his whip, flicking his horse’s flank. Jackson, on Marriland, was hitting his mount. Mannering was watching the faces of the two jockeys through his glasses. Simmons’s tense, expectant, hopeful, and Jackson’s grim almost to fierceness. Yard by yard the battle was fought, with the winning-post within a hundred yards — ninety — eighty . . .”

“Neck-and-neck,” muttered Fauntley nervously.

“She’ll do it,” said Mannering. “Gome on, Simmons — another yard — you’re in the lead.”

Fifty yards to go — forty — thirty . . .

Lord Fauntley hopped on one foot, then on the other. Mannering’s eyes were very hard and bright. Simmons was almost home.

“Hey!” bellowed Lord Fauntley. “Hey! Hurray 1 She’s won! Feodora, Feodora . . .” He remembered himself suddenly, and scowled, “Sorry, Mannering — excitement. Hal She won, then, she won! Do well ?”

“Fair,” said Mannering. For some reason, one that he could hardly understand, he was tempted to exaggerate his winnings. “I had a thousand with Blackjack, doubled with Feodora.”

“A thousand? Doubled?” Fauntley choked.

“H’m-h’m,” said Mannering, and laughed.

7.00 p.m. “Met that astonishing fellow Mannering,” said Lord Fauntley, as he kissed his wife and dropped into an easy-chair. “Parker — a whisky, with plenty of soda. Astonishing fellow, m’dear — had six thousand on Feodora, and didn’t turn a hair.”

“Six thousand !” gasped Lady Fauntley. “Why, the man must be a — a veritable — mustn’t he ?”

“Seems so, seems so,” admitted Fauntley. “Parker, I want that to-day. Not a hair, m’dear — never seen anyone take it easier than he did. Talked about the Liska diamond hallway through the race. Parker!”

“Soda — and whisky, m’lord,” said Parker.

“Ha! Parker, Mr John Mannering will be here for dinner.”

“Very good, m’lord,” said Parker. He went downstairs to relate the latest information, knowing well that the visit of Mannering would pleasantly excite the feminine members of the staff.

Meanwhile Fauntley sipped his whisky and waited for his wife to voice appreciation of his effort.

“You invited him to dinner?” Lady Fauntley preened herself, and patted her husband’s hand. “ That will show Emmy that she doesn’t have all the good fortune, Hugo. How thoughtful of you to invite him!”

“Always thoughtful for you, m’dear.” Fauntley patted his wife’s hand in turn, finished his whisky-and-soda, and smiled. “I think you could wear the Liska to-night. I didn’t know Mannering was interested in stones, but he seems to be, and if he is he’ll notice it.”

“I’m sure he will,” said Lady Fauntley. “Hugo, do you think we ought to phone Lorna and tell her ?”

“Lorna ?” Lord Hugo thought suddenly of his daughter, who was not merely single, but apparently satisfied to remain unnoticed by men, eligible or otherwise. She was the despair of the Fauntley family, for she had a distressing habit of saying what was in her mind, and caring nothing for consequences. “Well — I don’t want the fellah upset, m’dear. Lorna’s got some funny ways . . .”

“But she adores him! She said this morning that if we could find a man like Mannering she might think of — of . . . Of course, I’m not fond of her modern ideas, Hugo, but she means well; I’m sure she does. I’D telephone her, dear.”

7.15 p.m. The telephone in Lorna Fauntley’s studio rang as Lorna was deliberating over crimson lake or crimson pure for the sash on the portrait of Lady Anne Wrigley.

“Damn the phone!” said Lorna equably. “Lake would be a little too bright, perhaps. I’ll make it pure. Hallo?”

“Lorna, darling !”

“Mother, you ought to be shot. I was just in the middle of something that . . .”

“Yes, dear, I know how busy you are, but I thought you’d like to know that your father’s invited Mr Mannering tonight. I just wondered whether . . .”

“ John Mannering?” asked Lorna.

“Who else?” asked Lady Fauntley. “Eight o’clock; but if you’d like to come I’ll keep dinner back a little while.”

“I’m a pig of a daughter,” said Lorna Fauntley, “and there are times when I’m ashamed of myself.”

“I understand you, Lorna.”

Lorna laughed. “I really think you do,” she said. “Be an angel and send Riddel! over with the car. I’ve a dress here that I can wear. Bye-bye.”

CHAPTER THREE

DINNER AND AN IDEA

“SO THAT’S FAUNTLEY’S DAUGHTER,” THOUGHT MANNERING.

During dinner he sat opposite the girl. There was something disturbing about her, he admitted, although he wasn’t sure what it was. She wasn’t beautiful; remarkable, he told himself, was a word that suited her. Her eyes were grey, thoughtful, and probing. Probing. She had nothing of her mother’s lumpiness, and she was taller than either of her parents. Her movements were graceful but unconsidered, almost like a challenge: “Here am I, whether you like the effect or you don’t.” Mannering did. She looked mutinous, he thought. Her chin was firm, square, and like a man’s.

“She’s at war with the world,” Mannering told himself, “and that means she’s unhappy, which suggests an affaire. She’s twenty-five, or a year or two older, and she’s cleverer than her years. H’m.”

“He’s cynical,” Lorna thought, “and I hate cynical men. He’s handsome, and I dislike handsome men. He’s clever, and knows it, and clever men are detestable. Why do I like him?”

“The most distinguished man I’ve ever seen,” thought Lady Fauntley. “So tall and strong, so reserved. Just the man for Lorna — no, I mustn’t think of such things.” Aloud: “ Do try a little of that sauce with your fish, Mr Mannering. It’s very out of the ordinary.”

Mannering smiled and tried it.

“It is,” he acknowledged. “Delightful.”

“Wait till you try the Cockburn 1900,” said Fauntley. “A wine with body in it, real body!”

Mannering felt the girl’s eyes on him suddenly — smiling eyes. His own twinkled. Yes, he liked her. He told himself that he must spend an hour looking up the record of her painting. She had a reputation for strong work in the old style, despite her modern tendencies in everything but art. It would be strong work, of course. Everything about her suggested power.

“I hear you had a wonderful day,” said Lady Fauntley.

“Fair,” said Mannering, smiling secretly. More than ever he realised the good effect his reputation was creating. No one, not even his closest friends, had any idea that he was so low in money.

He quizzed his hostess for a moment, staring at the Liska diamond in her corsage, and noticing the reddening of her skin under his gaze.

“That’s a wonderful stone, Lady Fauntley,” he said at length.

“Recognised it, eh?” chuckled Fauntley. “I wondered whether you would. Old Rawson is cursing himself for letting it go, I’ll bet.”

“Are you interested in precious stones ?” asked Lorna.

Lady Fauntley noticed the sparkle in her daughter’s eyes, and was apprehensive. Lorna did say such dreadful things on occasions.

“Always, when they become their wearers,” said Mannering.

He was sorry, a moment later. The triteness of the words brought a flicker of amusement to Lorna’s eyes. There was something scornful about her expression.

“Almost like pressing button B, wasn’t it?” she said mockingly.

“Oh, my dear!” thought Lady Fauntley miserably.

“Darned little idiot!” stormed her husband inwardly, stabbing viciously at his fish.

Mannering laughed, and was glad of the answering laughter in the girl’s eyes.

“ Touché ! ” he admitted. “As ye sow, so shall ye reap.”

“It doesn’t always follow,” said Lorna.

“Careful girl, careful,” muttered Fauntley to himself. He lived in perpetual fear of the offence Lorna would give to his many visitors. Lorna spoke her mind too much, and, to make things worse, had a mind to speak.

“So sweet not to take offence,” thought Lady Fauntley.

“I like him,” Lorna reaffirmed.

Mannering chuckled to himself.

“The Liska’s only one of many of yours, Isn’t it?” he asked, playing with a spoon. “I’ve heard rumours that your collection is unrivalled.”

“Only rumours ?” Fauntley chuckled, in rare good-humour. “It’s the truth, Mannering, take it from me. Like to see them ?”

“After dinner, dear,” said Lady Fauntley.

“Of course, of course.”

“Thanks,” said Mannering. His eyes challenged Lorna’s. She was dressed in a black Schiaparelli gown, gathered at the corsage with a single diamond clip, but otherwise she was innocent of jewels. The gleaming white satin of her skin needed none. “You don’t like gems ?” he asked her.

“A Roland for my Oliver,” thought Lorna. Aloud: “Not so much as I’m supposed to,” she admitted.

“But you’re free to choose,” said Mannering.

“Everything’s a darned sight too free-and-easy over here,” broke in Fauntley, whose recent political activities tempted him to mount the platform at the slightest opportunity. “Going to the dogs, that’s what I think, Mannering, and . . .”

“Do try that souffle,” pleaded Lady Fauntley.

Mannering smiled, and the imps of laughter in Lorna’s eyes matched his.

The meal passed as pleasantly as it had begun, and Mannering told himself that Lady Fauntley, passive as she was, had more in her to admire than her husband. But there was not the slightest hint of her in Lorna; the girl seemed of a different class. He was enjoying himself much more than he had expected.

They chatted for a while over the Cockburn 1900. Fauntley was jerky both in manner and speech, a little too self-important, as though he were anxious to prepare his guest for an honour indeed. Mannering smiled when he realised the peer’s pride in his possessions, and his heart beat faster when at last they moved — the two ladies had been with them all the time — from the dining-room to the library and thence to the strong-room, built in one corner. If Fauntley was to be believed the collection held so safely in the room was without parallel in England.

And what did the possession of it mean to Fauntley, beyond an outlet for boastfulness that was already more than annoying?

Mannering pushed the thoughts to the back of his mind as Fauntley opened the door of the strong-room and switched on the light.

“Come along in, Mannering — you’re one of the half-dozen who’ve ever been inside, so you can think yourself honoured. Careful with the door, Lorna; we might get shut in. No one else has a key, and our obituary notices would be out before we were. Ha! Don’t shiver so, Lucy — only my joke.”

Lady Fauntley glanced nervously at the steel door, while her husband played with the combination of one of the sales in the strong-room. Mannering looked round idly. It was as near burglar-proof as a place could be. First the strong-room, with its lock that only gelignite or a key could open. Then the safes inside the room. H’m. If a man wanted to separate Lord Fauntley from some of his precious stones it would be a task worth doing — but as near impossible as anything in the way of cracksmanship. Cracksmanship. . . .