Shadow The Baron
Shadow The Baron
First published in 1951
Copyright: John Creasey Literary Management Ltd.; House of Stratus 1951-2010
All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted, in any form, or by any means (electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise), without the prior permission of the publisher. Any person who does any unauthorised act in relation to this publication may be liable to criminal prosecution and civil claims for damages.
The right of John Creasey to be identified as the author of this work has been asserted.
This edition published in 2010 by House of Stratus, an imprint of:
Stratus Books Ltd., Lisandra House, Fore Street, Looe,
Cornwall, PL13 1AD, UK.
Typeset by House of Stratus.
A catalogue record for this book is available from the British Library and the Library of Congress.
| | EAN | | ISBN | | Edition | |
| | 0755117743 | | 9780755117741 | | Print | |
| | 0755118723 | | 9780755118724 | | Pdf | |
| | 0755125592 | | 9780755125593 | | Kindle/Mobi | |
| | 0755125606 | | 9780755125609 | | Epub | |
This is a fictional work and all characters are drawn from the author’s imagination.
Any resemblance or similarities to persons either living or dead are entirely coincidental.
John Creasey – Master Storyteller - was born in Surrey, England in 1908 into a poor family in which there were nine children, John Creasey grew up to be a true master story teller and international sensation. His more than 600 crime, mystery and thriller titles have now sold 80 million copies in 25 languages. These include many popular series such as
Gideon of Scotland Yard, The Toff, Dr Palfrey and The Baron
.
Creasy wrote under many pseudonyms, explaining that booksellers had complained he totally dominated the ‘C’ section in stores. They included:
Gordon Ashe, M E Cooke, Norman Deane, Robert Caine Frazer, Patrick Gill, Michael Halliday, Charles Hogarth, Brian Hope, Colin Hughes, Kyle Hunt, Abel Mann, Peter Manton, J J Marric, Richard Martin, Rodney Mattheson, Anthony Morton and Jeremy York.
Never one to sit still, Creasey had a strong social conscience, and stood for Parliament several times, along with founding the
One Party Alliance
which promoted the idea of government by a coalition of the best minds from across the political spectrum.
He also founded the
British Crime Writers’ Association
, which to this day celebrates outstanding crime writing.
The Mystery Writers of America
bestowed upon him the
Edgar Award
for best novel and then in 1969 the ultimate
Grand Master Award
. John Creasey’s stories are as compelling today as ever.
Superintendent Bristow, of New Scotland Yard, had always believed that he could think best when walking. During cold January and bleak February, he had walked a great deal. That had helped to keep him warm. At the end of the two months, he doubted the efficacy of walking as an aid to constructive thinking. Yet he persisted.
On the first day of March, spring came to London. The sun spread a kindly warmth over the throngs in the West End. The daffodils on the barrows and in the baskets of the Piccadilly flower sellers cried heavily that winter had gone. Dark thoughts, however, haunted Bristow, a tall, spruce, well dressed man, blind to all but the hoarse insistence of a newsboy.
“Nother big jewel robbery – speshul!”
Bristow reached the Circus, and waited with a small crowd for the traffic to pause. A little man, poorly dressed, unshaven but bright eyed, caught sight of him, and his eyes grew sharper.
The traffic lights shone green.
Bristow moved across the road towards Eros. The little man followed. One of the flower sellers, a massive woman bundled up in overcoats, with an incongruous feathered hat perched on masses of dusty hair, waved a plump hand to him.
“Allo, ducks,” she greeted. “Nice die.”
“Beautiful,” said Bristow, mechanically. “Trade any better, Lil?”
“Best mornin’ I’ve ‘ad this year,” said Lil. She did not need to ask what Bristow wanted, but from a small tray she took a single gardenia. With this in her hand, she lumbered up, breathing with gusty energy. She placed the gardenia in Bristow’s buttonhole, fastening it into position. Bristow gave her his daily shilling.
“Beauty, that one is an’ no mistake,” said Lil. “Saved it for you, Mr. Bristow. You busy?”
“I need a holiday,” declared Bristow.
Lil chuckled comfortably. “Don’t you worry, ducks. You’ll get ‘im. Up to ‘is tricks again last night, wasn’t ‘e?”
“You bet he was,” said the little man, who stood close by. “‘Morning, Super!”
Bristow looked at him without favour.
“Know anything about him, Clip?”
“Who, me? Not my cup of tea, Super.” The little man spoke in a pseudo cultured voice from a mouth widened in a mechanical grin.
“Besides, “I’m an honest member of the British public now, didn’t anyone tell you?”
“They must have forgotten,” said Bristow. “Goodbye, Lil.”
“Bye bye, dearie!”
Bristow moved round the statue and crossed towards Shaftesbury Avenue, and now the little man walked with him.
Another newsboy shrilled: “Big jewel robbery, read all abaht it!”
“What, not going to buy a paper?” asked his self appointed companion, flashing coppers from his pocket, as he took an Evening News. “Accept it from me, with my compliments.”
Bristow took the paper.
“Chirpy this morning, aren’t you?”
The little man chuckled.
“Always does me good when I see you wearing a frown, Super! Not that I mean any malice, mind you, but this chap keeps you on your toes, doesn’t he? How much stuff has he lifted? Can’t be far short of a hundred thousand quid, can it? Been busy six months, done a dozen jobs and shown you a clean pair of heels every time. You’ve got to hand it to him.”
“That’s right,” said Bristow. “I’ll hand him a pair of handcuffs one of these days.”
“Not if you live to be a thousand.” The little man rubbed his hands together with slow enjoyment. “He’s made a fool of you and everyone at the Yard, Super. Good luck to him, I say. So long.” With an airy wave of the hand he slipped into a door of Lyons Corner House.
Bristow crossed to Leicester Square, where every seat was filled with basking people, and opened the newspaper. He read stoically:
£15,000 GEMS STOLEN
FROM WEST END FLAT
“SHADOW” STRIKES AGAIN
Daring jewel thief, known as “The Shadow” broke into the Mayfair flat of Mr. Raymond Allen during the night and in spite of the most up-to-date burglar alarm escaped with beautiful Mrs. Allen’s jewels. The loss is estimated at £15,000. No one was disturbed although four people were sleeping on the premises.
The theft appears to have been the work of the man known as “The Shadow” and is the tenth of a series of burglaries attributed to him.
Superintendent William Bristow, the Yard’s jewel expert, was at the flat early this morning. The Yard has no statement to make.
Bristow tucked the paper under his arm, and became aware of the slightly malicious grin of a stationary taxi driver.
Bristow paused.
“Happy?” he inquired.
“Happier than you are, I shouldn’t wonder.”
“Hope he’ll get off?”
“Oh, I wouldn’t go as far as that,” said the cabby. “Can’t help but admire him though, can you? I must say you don’t look as if you’ve been up all night, Mr. Bristow.”
“I haven’t,” said Bristow curtly.
At Trafalgar Square, a car slid past him in purring luxury; a Sunbeam Talbot, driven by a middle aged man smoking a cigar. The car reminded Bristow of another man who owned a Sunbeam Talbot, a man who was probably as sympathetic as the cabby to “The Shadow’s” evasion of arrest.
Bristow reached a tobacconist’s near the Yard, and within sight of the Cenotaph and Parliament Square, and he went in. The woman who managed the shop was sitting, head bent, over a newspaper. She jumped up.
“If it isn’t Mr. Bristow!”
“Why the surprise? I look in most days.”
“Just reading about you,” she said, “you must be having a very worrying time, Mr. Bristow. Forty Players as usual?” She dipped under the counter. “But I must say, he’s a proper spark, isn’t he? You’ve got to admire him – how anyone dare do what he does, I just don’t know. Isn’t it the day to fill your lighter?”
“Thanks.” Bristow handed over his lighter. “If he breaks into your house tonight and takes everything of value, will you still admire him?”
She laughed. “Well, if you put it that way, I wouldn’t, not that I’ve got anything worth pinching. Only goes for the rich, doesn’t he? There’s no need for me to worry. There you are – last you the rest of the week.’
“Thanks,” said Bristow, and turned towards the Yard, along the narrow street which led from Parliament Street. The policemen on duty touched their foreheads, and Bristow grunted. He walked through the Civil Duties building and the newer C.I.D to his office. His chief aide, Chief Inspector Gordon, was sitting at one of the desks.
“Morning, Bill.”
“Morning, Pat.”
“A-K wants a word with you.”
“I’m not surprised. Anything in?”
“Just got the report from the Aliens’ place, but there’s not a clue.”
Bristow grunted, and went out again.
Colonel Anderson-Kerr, the Assistant Commissioner at the Yard, was to be found in his own larger office on the next floor. He was a small, leathery looking whippet of a man, with piercing blue eyes. Meticulously tidy, his desk supported in geometrical order, two telephones, an inkstand, a box of cigarettes, an ashtray, and a single file of papers. Many at the Yard disliked him, most were apprehensive in his presence. Bristow, however, both liked and respected the man.
Anderson-Kerr motioned to a chair.
“What time did you get to Bingham Court?”
“The safe was opened in the same way as all the others.
There could be two or three men with the same trick, but it’s not likely.”
Anderson-Kerr’s eyebrows shot up.
“Meaning, you think it might be a team?”
“I have wondered.”
“Well, I hope not,” said Anderson-Kerr, and pushed the cigarettes across the desk. “You know, Bristow, we’re going to have a bad time. This chap’s getting a lot of sympathy. He’ll get more, until he makes a fool of himself and hurts someone. Why the devil do people have a soft spot for a man like this? It’s happened time and time again.” He moved irritably. “You say there isn’t a line of any kind – no squeal, nothing at the receivers’ places?”