Held At Bay (15 page)

“Yes, it was all I could do.”

“I'll make sure it isn't there much longer. And we might find something else to put in the safe. I think that's a very good idea. Some kind of electric current, perhaps, enough to make him lose consciousness.”

“I think that would be excellent,” said Granette.

“Yes, excellent, excellent! Don't forget I want to see Lenville, don't forget! I'm getting a lot of ideas tonight; somehow I think we'll find a way of getting rid of that villain of yours, yes that villain!”

Kelworthy banged the receiver down, completely carried away by his new idea, an idea he would twist and turn until it yielded good results.

Granette was smiling painfully. It was better by far to leave the Baron to Kelworthy, his own nerves needed steadying before he tackled the man again. But he would have the opportunity of resting in America, and after he had secured the Flame Ruby from Van Royton, there would be plenty of time for Mannering. There would be no talking then.

Chapter Nineteen

Rest For The Baron

“But I tell you, Gussi, I
must
get back to the Bristol, and soon.”

“
M'sieu Baron,
it is not possible. You are weak, you cannot even stand. I, Gussi, tell you. And
M'sieu le Medecin
say you stay there, t'ree—four days. For your life, it must be!”

Mannering was leaning back on soft white pillows and with a pleasant feeling of laziness but a nasty pain in his neck. He raised his right hand weakly from the coverlet.

“But my friends—”

“Ah!
Vos amis
! Lisette, she go tell them you go away. You visit la Suisse, Lucerne, Menton,
toutes les places, M'sieu
! That is o'-right!”

“It sounds easy,” said the Baron, “but I don't know whether it will work. I—Gussi!”

“
M'sieu,
you will be quiet, please. I ‘ave two men, you and Benedicte, hurt bad, an' I cannot send him away, I ‘ave to look after them. You will talk, talk, talk! It is wrong,
M'sieu.
”

“Gussi,” said Mannering quietly, “there's one way out of my troubles, and when you've done that I'll be quiet.”

“But,
M'sieu—”

“Look here,” said Mannering irritably, “do you want me to get up and start walking?” He gripped the side of the bed and made as though to get out, but Gussi stopped him, his plump hands gentle but firm.

“You will open the cut, you will bleed to death.”

Gussi and the doctor were right: Mannering could no more get up and walk than he could repeat that desperate jump across the balconies. He closed his eyes to steady himself.

“There is a lady – a Mam'selle Fauntley – F-A—” Mannering spelled out Lorna's name carefully. “She is at the Hotel de Lazare, in Paris, or at the Bristol, in Menton. Telephone them, find her and tell her I want to see her urgently in Paris. Give her this address.” Each word was an effort.

“
Mais oui, M'sieu, je vais
!”

“And, Gussi. My room—at the Bristol.” Mannering was suddenly desperately aware of the room. “Blood everywhere—”

“It shall be clean, it shall be clean!” exclaimed Gussi, as though he was swearing that they should not pass, and before Mannering could speak again he was out of the room. Hazy pictures floated through Mannering's mind; odd, nightmare fancies. He dropped into a sleep that was half-unconsciousness, while outside Lisette was cutting a pyjama jacket into pieces and feeding the fire with them. Mannering had stuffed it into his pockets before he had left the Bristol, and it was stiff with blood.

It was afternoon before Mannering came round again. He opened his eyes, tried to turn his head, but the pain stopped him. A quiet, half-laughing voice came to his ears, and he felt a cool hand on his forehead.

Lorna!

“No tricks, John, they're not allowed today. What on earth have you been doing with yourself?”

“Thank God you're here,” breathed Mannering.

He was still silent when Lisette arrived with a bowl of steaming broth. The aroma put new interest into Mannering, and soon he smiled at Lorna with a gleam in his eyes.

“I suppose you're thinking I nearly met my match.”

“Good Lord, why? A scratch like that won't hurt you.”

“Dear liar,” said Mannering, for he could see that Lorna's nerves were stretched to breaking pitch. “Where did Gussi find you?”

“We were still in Paris. I've read about the affair at Panneraude's, and that you got away. Did you get what you wanted?”

“And lost it and found it again,” said Mannering. “You might call it an exciting night. Anita de Castilla is at the Bristol, and—good God! That room must be a shambles.”

“It's all right,” Lorna said. “Lisette has a friend there, a chambermaid. There's no need to worry.”

“Bless Lisette,” said Mannering. “You should see her dance.” After a pause he went on with a change of tone: “Tell Anita to be careful of Lenville, sweetheart.”

Five minutes later Lorna left, feeling more worried than she had before, for he was very weak. She went to the Bristol immediately and found Anita in her bedroom, concerned and anxious about Mannering. At sight of Lorna, Anita's eyes lit up.

“Lorna, how good to see you! You know where John—”

“He had an urgent message and has left Paris for a few days,” Lorna improvised quickly. “He seemed anxious you should get back to London, to Juan.”

“He would!” retorted Anita. “I do not think he likes Teddy.”

“He's fond of you, Anita, and I think something that happened yesterday worried him.”

“He did not tell you what?”

“No,” said Lorna.

“That is like John! You are a lucky woman, Lorna.” The
naïveté
was lost in sincerity, and Anita's dark eyes glowed. “What did he say?”

“That he hoped you would go straight back to London. He wants to talk to you about Ted Lenville. Anita, I don't know what it was about, but if this is—just a short trip to Paris with Ted, don't—”

“It was not that!” flashed Anita. “Am I a loose woman? But I am a little fool. I am not ungrateful, Lorna, I will return at once. Teddy has already returned. On the first train, for a friend who is ill or some such. I would have gone, but I was worried about John. You are free for dinner, yes?”

“I'm afraid not,” Lorna said, “but I'd love some tea. You'll really go back?”

“It is a promise,” said Anita.

It was late that night before Lorna was able to talk to Mannering. He was stronger although his pallor was unusual, and his eyes were unnaturally bright. But he insisted on telling her the whole story.

“And so I've three, Granette still has one and so has Van Royton. I don't see much chance of getting to New York in the near future.”

“You'll be in bed another three days, and you have to take it easy for a week or two,” said Lorna. “As far as I can understand, you needed five minutes more to bleed to death. You mustn't overdo it.”

Mannering eyed her, bitter thoughts chasing one another through his mind. To be so far on the road to success and then to be hauled back like this was intolerable, but Lorna was right.

He shrugged his shoulders.

“I won't even try.”

“Bless you,” said Lorna, and she went on brightly: “I've told mother you've had an accident with the foils, and she's going to Menton alone. I'll stay here as long as you need me. You're going on with the search for the five jewels?”

“With three in the bag, it would haunt me the rest of my life if I didn't,” said Mannering.

“If Leverson has the Isabella and the Desire Diamond, you've nothing to worry about with them. What are you going to do about this one?” Lorna touched the wallet, where the Crown of Castile was still hidden.

“Take it to a man named Grionde, on the Rue de Platte, will you?” said Mannering. “He's Leverson's recommendation, and there's no need to doubt him. What are the papers saying about the Panneraude job?”

“I'll bring a paper in later. You try to sleep.”

In fact, he slept soundly.

Next morning he smiled grimly at the headlines in the French Press about the Baron's outrage; the Baron would soon be as notorious here as in England. The chief longing in his mind during three days in bed was a longing to be in New York. He guessed Granette would defy him, and that the man was probably on the way to Van Royton now. It could not be helped, but—

Mannering spent three more days in Paris, returning to the Bristol on the sixth day after the fight. His leave-taking with Gussi and his wife, as well as Labolle, had been almost tearful. Mannering knew he had three really reliable friends in Paris.

Grionde still had care of the Crown. Mannering had telephoned Flick Leverson and been assured that Grionde was reliable in every way. It was better there than in England for the time being.

Lorna was patient and long-suffering then and during the week in a cottage on the Sussex coast that followed. The Baron chafed at the delay, but on his first day in England a mile walk was as much as he could manage.

But when Flick Leverson came from London, Mannering's impatience almost gave way.

For the fence had news.

“Granette flew to New York yesterday,” he reported. “I imagine you expected that.”

“I did,” grumbled the Baron, “but I'm no happier at having it confirmed.”

“I've warned you about Granette,” Leverson said quietly.

“And I appreciate it, Flick. But while Granette and I are still operating there will always be trouble. He isn't likely to accept defeat, although Kelworthy might, and Olling certainly would. Have you see anything of young Lenville?”

Leverson's white hair, ruffling in a soft breeze from the sea, seemed to stand on end. From inside the cottage came Lorna's voice and that of the housekeeper who was preserving the propriety.

“He spends a lot of time with Miss de Castilla and also at Kelworthy's, in Hampstead. I have a feeling they are planning something. Kelworthy might possibly give up, but I class him as dangerous. You are fighting men who are both ruthless and unscrupulous. The type who might well plan to murder you. I am not being melodramatic. You know that.”

“I've had some first-hand tuition,” said Mannering, and his mouth was set. “Whether I keep working or not the danger is still there. The confession from Granette is enough to keep him worried, and he'll work against me through others.”

“Providing you understand the danger, I'm satisfied,” said Leverson. “And if you need help, you have only to call on me.”

“My personal opinion,” said Lorna Fauntley unexpectedly from the doorway, “is that you should both be locked in separate cells, you're living threats to the sanctity of property. Who feels like tea?”

“I'd love some. Then I'll have to be getting back to town,” said Leverson.

It was the first time Lorna and Leverson had met, but they took to each other. Yet Lorna was very uneasy. She knew the visit had started Mannering planning in his mind again, and she sensed more of the danger from Granette.

But it was on the following morning that the Baron's patience broke all bounds. For in screaming headlines across the front page of the
Daily Cry
ran the announcement:

THE BARON IN NEW YORK
FAMOUS COLLECTOR
NEW VICTIM RECEIVES SERIOUS KNIFE INJURIES

Mannering read the headlines, then stared ahead of him for several minutes without reading the letterpress. Lorna coming out of the cottage to the garden where he had met the paper-boy, saw his tension and her cheeks paled. From inside the cottage came the voice of the housekeeper, talking of breakfast.

“What is it?” asked Lorna, and Mannering showed her. They stood together, reading how Julian Van Royton, of Long Island, New York, had interrupted a burglar dressed in the familiar dark clothes of the Baron and with a similar mask and gas-pistol. Van Royton had tried to raise the alarm, but the Baron – said the
Daily Cry
– had attacked him with such violence that it was hours before he regained consciousness.

And the Baron had escaped, with fifty thousand pounds' worth of jewels.

“
Here” went on the
Daily Cry,
“is yet another example of the way the Baron is degenerating; of the viciousness of his attacks. Success has gone to his head, murder will follow his raids unless the police of all countries unite to make sure that this menace is caught and made to suffer the severest penalties for his crimes.

“Among the valuable gems lost by Mr. Van Royton is the famous Venate Ruby and Aris Sapphire – both stones of renown through centuries – and an unnamed ruby which experts declare to be perfect in every detail. It weighs
—”

Mannering drew a deep breath.

“So he got it.” He paused, then asked irritably: “What the dickens is Sarah yelling about?”

“Breakfast,” said Lorna.

“Breakfast's an idea,” said Mannering. “Then London, my sweet. We'll see Bristow before lunch. Coming?”

“We'd better hurry,” said Lorna, and Mannering actually chuckled as she hurried towards the cottage. She was the one person in this world on whom he could rely never to let him down. She knew there could be no more waiting, no more holding back. He had to fight for the five Jewels of Castilla, for his life, and for the reputation of the Baron.

Chapter Twenty

The Baron Denies

Chief Inspector William Bristow was even more worried these days than he had been during the time the Baron had operated solely in England. He was convinced that Mannering had not robbed Archibald Price at Chelsea, but Mannering had been in France at the time of the Panneraude robbery, and there was good reason to believe that he was now in New York.

Bristow had determined to stop Mannering, but could not bring himself to believe that Mannering would use the violence that had been used on Van Royton.

To make the situation worse, the Assistant-Commissioner, Sir David Ffoulkes, complained without bitterness but with considerable effect that Mannering should never have been allowed to go to France without having a man on his heels, and that Bristow should have known it. Superintendent Lynch came in for a similar reproof. Both men, sitting in the A.C.'s office, were feeling glum. The Baron had been a shadow over their lives for a long time past and he seemed likely to become darker than ever.

Bristow was able to point to his cable to Paris as his chief line of defence. Ffoulkes nodded. He was a youngish, thorough and likeable man, who looked older than he was because of his greying hair and an oddly wrinkled face.

“I suppose you can't be blamed, but it is going too far. I presume there's no doubt that it is Mannering?”

Bristow pointed out Mannering's recent movements.

“Too much for coincidence, I suppose. He must have travelled from Cherbourg, without coming back to England. When was he last seen at the Bristol, in Paris?”

“The night of the Panneraude burglary,” said Bristow.

“He's had plenty of time, you see. Of course, there was that fake robbery at Chelsea, but—” Bristow stopped.

Lynch, in the act of lighting a cigar, stopped also, and Ffoulkes, whose back was to the door, looked up in surprise. He saw them staring towards the door, the astonishment on their faces, and twisted round in his chair. As he did so the door opened more widely, and John Mannering stood there.

He was smiling a little, his tall frame as immaculate as ever in dark grey. He walked slowly towards the desk while a portly and worried sergeant hesitated on the threshold. He had always allowed Mr. Mannering to visit Bristow, but had never dreamed the man would interrupt the Assistant-Commissioner.

Ffoulkes said sharply: “All right, sergeant, close the door and get off. Hallo, Mannering, I hardly expected you.”

“Didn't you?” Mannering nodded to Bristow and Lynch. They had doubtless been convinced that Mannering was in New York, yet he could not have come back since the Van Royton burglary, even by jet. “I've been recuperating, and I thought I'd look you up. I'm not interrupting, I hope?”

Ffoulkes drew a deep breath.

He had known Mannering since his schooldays, liked the man and yet agreed with Bristow and Lynch that he might be daring enough to be the Baron. For Mannering to walk in now, completely at ease and nonchalant, seemed to be defiance itself.

“No,” said Ffoulkes slowly, “you're not interrupting. It's time you and I had a talk, John.”

The Baron looked puzzled as Ffoulkes offered cigarettes.

“Always a pleasure, David, always ready for service.” He eyed Bristow and Lynch, and his eyes were gleaming. “I hope you haven't been bitten by the Bristow bug? Find Mannering and you've found the Baron?”

Bristow simply lit a cigarette.

“We won't bandy words,” said Ffoulkes, harshly. “We think you're the Baron. You know that well enough.”

“To my cost,” agreed Mannering. “I'm hoping the
canard
will be scotched after today. Have you seen the newspapers?”

“I have,” said Ffoulkes. “And the Baron—”

“Is busy in the United States. I've been in Sussex for the last week. That rather punctures Bristow's pet theory. Doesn't it, Bill?”

“Er,” Bristow grunted, and bristled. “I know what it looks like.”

“You're still as obstinate as the law, Bill. Well, the Baron is giving you a tousing, one way and the other. Changing his methods, isn't he, and getting quite violent?”

Ffoulkes waved his hand impatiently.

“John, I don't like this but I'll have to have a complete record of your movements in the past three weeks.”

“You won't get it,” said the Baron, and he looked almost sorrowfully at Ffoulkes. “You've no grounds at all for asking for it, and if you read the code book you'll know that well. But I'll meet you halfway. I was in Paris until a week ago. In Paris I ran across a man who could use foils better than I, and I was careless about a guard. That,” added the Baron, leaning forward and pulling his collar down, “is the result. See it, Bill?”

The scar from Granette's knife was plain enough, although the wound had healed cleanly. All three men regarded it as they would have done the Crown of Castile, before Ffoulkes broke the silence.

“So you've been recuperating.”

“With Lorna, a gem of a housekeeper, and the whole village of Listington to bear witness,” smiled Mannering. “And the Baron is in New York. This is the first time when circumstances haven't made things look black against me as the Baron.”

Bristow's grey eyes met his, in annoyance, anger, but with a hint of relief.

The Baron was here in front of them, proving that he had not been in New York, showing them that the Baron was being impersonated!

Who else would have dared to come here? Would have pushed past the sergeant and into the A.C.'s room on such an errand? Even Ffoulkes, looking at Mannering's face, knew that same reluctant admiration for the Baron as Lynch, Bristow and Detective Sergeant Tring felt from time to time.

“That's fine,” said Mannering gently. “Have we had our talk, David, or is there anything else?”

“No,” said Ffoulkes, slowly.

“Fine,” repeated Mannering. “Then I'll be moving. Oh, Bill, don't be surprised if you get your man for the Price and Van Royton robberies. So long.”

He moved so quickly towards the door that they hardly realised he had gone before the door closed. There was a moment's tense silence and then Ffoulkes swore.

“He's just stringing us,” said Lynch. Nothing disturbed the Superintendent's coolness of mind, and he sat back in a chair almost hidden by his bulk, dropping half an inch of cigarette ash on his coat lapel. “But he's proved to my satisfaction that the Baron wasn't in New York.”

“Which is what he set out to do,” said Ffoulkes.

“I wonder what he meant with that talk of getting our man,” said Bristow. “He knows who's impersonating him, of course.”

Lynch grunted.

“If he does and it comes to a showdown, there won't be much left to arrest one way or the other. It'll be the Baron or the other fellow, and my betting is on the other fellow. Then we'll have murder on Mannering.”

“He'd prove self-defence,” said Bristow. “I wonder who is doing it?”

Lynch widened his sleepy eyes.

“I wonder where he got that cut throat. The fencing yarn was too thin, no foil would cut like that. And the man in New York used a knife.”

Ffoulkes was listening and staring at Lynch, but it was Bristow who made the only pertinent revelation.

“I only know one good jewel man who handles a knife,” he said, “although I've never been able to get anything on him. Granette, of the Kelworthy crowd. I'll find out if he's in London. If he's not, we'll radio his description to New York. With your permission, sir?”

“Carry on,” said Ffoulkes, “the quicker the better.”

In the next hour Bristow learned that Jules Granette had been out of England for two days, and that during these two days he had been seen in Paris. Bristow felt the glow that always followed a good guess, and cabled Granette's description, with his known record, to the Police Bureau in New York.

At the same time Mannering was wondering how he could check if Granette was flying back.

He was turning this problem over in his mind that evening when he walked from his flat to the Elan, where he was to dine with Lorna. He had deliberately walked, and he felt thoroughly fit again. The croaking of a newsboy broke his reverie, bringing the gleam to his eyes and the old zest to his mind. He paid for the paper with a sixpence and opened it, standing by Fortnum and Mason's as he read the
Evening Wire's
report.

IS THE BARON IN ENGLAND? AMAZING LETTER TO
“EVENING WIRE”

“
The facsimile printed below, of a sensational letter received this afternoon and purporting to come from the cracksman who has styled himself the Baron, is exactly the same as other letters received in the past, after some of the most stupefying of the Baron's exploits. The ‘Evening Wire' believes it to be genuine. If this is so, then someone in France and in America is impersonating the Baron, someone
—”

Mannering chuckled and read through his own letter, printed in block letters and reproduced faithfully as he had written it on the cottage table that morning. It was a brief statement that the Baron had been in England for the past week, that he had never seen Mr. Van Royton, and had not been in America for four years. It also pointed out that he had not been near Chelsea on the night of the burglary at Archibald Price's house.

Mannering knew that nine people out of ten who read it would believe him. Lorna found him absent-minded that night, and they separated just before ten o'clock. Mannering knew that Tanker Tring was on his trail, and he amused himself by giving the sergeant an extra mile walk before he turned into Clarges Street.

At the entrance to the house he stopped, and Tring realised he had been spotted. The sergeant came up slowly, half uncertainly, and with his face set in its usual gloom. He had bought a new bowler, and for once it fitted him without touching his ears.

“You must be tired, Tanker,” said the Baron sympathetically. “Coming up for a drink?”

“No, sir, thank you, it's against orders. Are you fully recovered, sir? Mr. Bristow was saying you'd been ill.”

“And you've been wishing I would stay like it,” said Mannering. “All right, Tanker, give your wife a present.” He slipped a five pound note in the astonished Tring's hand, and went off. He was feeling in fine fettle as he put the key in the lock, turned it and pushed open the door.

But he did not close it immediately, for he found himself looking at someone who should not have been there.

The surprise was as great as when Anita had been in his rooms at the Bristol, but there was no risk with the proprieties this time.

Edward Lenville, his light hair ruffled, his pugnacious face flushed, half ran across the room towards him.

“Mannering, I've been waiting hours! Anita—”

“What about Anita?” asked Mannering sharply.

Lenville's lips were quivering.

“It's Kelworthy! At his Hampstead place, and he—he sent me with a message. He gave me the key to your flat. He wants the three gems you've got, or—”

“Or what,” said the Baron, and he felt like ice.

“Or Anita will never have them!” cried Lenville. “He says he'll kill her first. You've got to help her, you've
got
to, even if it means giving up those blasted jewels! Mannering, hurry, for God's sake hurry!”