Shadow The Baron (14 page)

“You needed that,” Smith said.

“I don’t know that I want to work with you,” said Mannering, still feigning nervousness. “I’ll think about it. If you won’t be satisfied without knowing my real name, maybe the risk is too big.”

“I won’t be satisfied.”

“I’ll think about it,” Mannering muttered.

Smith said: “Don’t take too long.”

Mannering went out, conscious of the other’s gaze even when his back was turned. He had a feeling of imminent danger, as he had had when going upstairs at Buckley Street with this man behind him. But when Mannering glanced round Smith was still standing motionless, the curl of the thin lips and the glow in the glittering eyes suggesting that he was laughing at some satanic joke.

Mannering was glad when the door closed.

The little man was nowhere in sight. He let himself out, and walked slowly to the Austin. Before he had gone a hundred yards, he knew that he was being followed. There was a taxi standing outside the garage, and its engine started up. Mannering didn’t quicken his pace. By the time he was at the Austin, the taxi was in sight. He did not look round or show that he knew he was being followed. He drove carefully back across Blackfriars Bridge, then through the West End until he was at the Edgware Road. He parked the car in a side street and walked along to Old Sol’s.

The taxi was on the other side of the road, and the man following him was walking.

Sol’s shop was shut. Mannering rang the bell, and had to wait for two minutes, before it was opened. His shadower pretended to be looking into the window of a restaurant.

Sol opened the door himself, a small man with a wizened face and a beaked nose.

“Back so soon, my friend?” He stood aside, invitingly.

In a room at the rear of the shop, which looked like a cross between a barber’s shop and a theatre dressing room, he stood waiting expectantly, expecting to be asked to remove the disguise. When Mannering didn’t speak, the old man’s face grew anxious.

“Is there trouble, bad trouble?”

“Not yet, Sol. I want a flat or a house, a small place, to which I can go straight away, and be readily accepted as a Mr. John Brown. And if inquiries are made, I want it to be said that I’ve lived in the place for a long time and am a salesman for a big company.”

The veiny old eyes were sombre.

“Will the police be inquiring?”

“No, Sol, just a bad man who thinks I may be fooling him.”

The smile came back.

“Then that is quite easy, my friend. I shall make a telephone call, and then give you the address.”

The address was of a small house in Paddington. Mannering arrived half an hour later, was received by a middle aged woman as if she knew him well, and went inside. From a front room, he watched the street. The man who had followed him there, and a little later, knocked at the front door. The woman opened it. Mannering didn’t hear what she said, but Smith’s man went off, after ten minutes or so, and both he and the taxi driver left the street.

Mannering arranged to be able to call whenever he wanted, and left five pounds with the middle aged woman.

It was too soon to return to the garage; in any case, Smith probably wouldn’t be there. Mannering went to Chelsea, after another visit to Old Sol, who removed the makeup. Dressed in his own clothes and driving the Sunbeam Talbot, Mannering went to Chelsea. He waved across the street to the invisible man who was watching. Bristow would know by now, and there would be a careful scrutiny of all the jobs done that night; and Bristow would get nothing for this pains.

He whistled as he went upstairs, taking out his keys. But the door opened before he reached it, and Lorna stood there.

Mannering lifted her off her feet, kissed her, and then carried her across the hall. He dropped into an armchair with Lorna in his lap, and kissed her again.

“I have a lot of lipstick on,” she said coldly.

“Who cares about a little lipstick at a time like this?”

“Better now than at the Lulu Club,” Lorna said.

“Didn’t you wear any then?”

“I’m not talking about the time when you went with your lawful wife. What woman have you been taking about?”

“Oh, Chloe!” Mannering laughed. “You ought to see Chloe. You probably will, too, I’m going to dance with her at least once again before I die. Darling, you look wonderful. How’s mother?”

“Better. She is very like me in that she doesn’t trust you when you’re on your own.”

“The firm belief of practically all women. The strange thing is that any men survive.”

“John,” said Lorna, “be serious. I arrived an hour ago. Bristow came five minutes afterwards. If I can believe him, there is likely to be a warrant out for your arrest any time.”

“Don’t believe him.”

“I want to know what you’ve been doing.”

“And you shall,” said Mannering warmly.

It was a relief to talk, and Lorna, as always, was a good listener. She poured him out a whisky and soda, when he’d finished.

“And all for this Celia,” she said.

“In point of fact you’re wrong there. Lovely though she is, I see her only as an unexpected twist in an already tortuous journey. When it’s over, we’ll know the Shadow, we’ll know the truth about Smith, and we may or may not have taken Major Fleming out of his particular kind of purgatory. Quite a lot at one sweep.”

“You already know the Shadow,” said Lorna.

“Ah,” said Mannering.

“Don’t you?”

“I’ve a pretty good idea.”

“You’re quite hopeless. I guessed what was happening, of course, that’s why I couldn’t keep away. I needn’t go back, either.”

“Pity,” said Mannering.

“Thank you, darling.”

“Because I’m going away for a day or two.”

“We are.”

“Humph.”

“Where are we going?”

“First of all to Guildford, to have a look at Major Fleming’s happy home. Then to Winchester, to see Chloe. We may go on to Paris, after that. Suit you?”

Lorna laughed. “When you’re mysterious with me, I know you’re feeling cockahoop.”

“I’m not that far on yet,” Mannering assured her, “but I see possibilities of feeling it. I – that would happen now.”

It was the telephone.

Lorna answered it, whipping up the receiver just before he reached it. After a while, she said: “Yes, he’s here.”

“Who?” asked Mannering urgently.

“Toby Plender.”

Mannering took the receiver from her. “Hallo, Toby.”

“Have you seen Bristow?” asked Plender abruptly. “He’s on the warpath.”

“That was before I saw him, this afternoon.”

“Oh, you’ve seen him, have you?” Plender sounded relieved. “He seemed to be pretty sure that you’d run yourself into trouble. I thought you might want me to defend you.”

“Not me. Toby –”

“Hm-hm?”

“You’ve read about the Muriel Lee case, haven’t you? And the Flemings?”

“And that you were there.”

“Care to lend a hand?”

“If it’s legal, yes.”

“Right. I want you to cross-examine Fleming, in the nicest possible way. I’ll send you a note, telling you what he told me, and I’d like you to shake his story if you can. If you can’t, I’ll be inclined to believe it.”

“If I can’t shake it, it’s true,” said Plender. “When is this to be?”

“I’ll tell him you’re lending a hand, and give you a letter of introduction,” Mannering said.

“All right. Delighted to hear Lorna’s back. She seems to be the only one who can do anything with you.” Plender laughed and rang off.

Mannering smoothed down his hair and looked at Lorna with thoughtful eyes. She was looking her best, and although she so strongly disapproved, he thought that she was feeling something of his excitement.

He went forward, and kissed her. She was breathless when he let her go.

The telephone bell rang again.

“My turn,” said Mannering, and picked up the receiver. “Hallo.”

It was Chittering.

“Oh, hallo,” repeated Mannering, with more enthusiasm. “How’s Chloe?”

“I don’t wear her on a chain,” said Chittering mildly. “She’ll do what you want, why worry about it any more? I think I have an inkling of what you’re up to, John. You’re a crafty devil.”

“Thanks.”

“I thought this would interest you, too,” said Chittering. “Smith has bought a ticket for the mid-day ‘plane to Paris, tomorrow. It is in the name of Celia Fleming. I can’t tell you whether someone else will go in her place, but personally I should think that he’s sending her away.”

“It wouldn’t surprise me if you were right,” said Mannering.

“I know. Anything I can do to help?”

“Yes,” said Mannering. “You could telephone Smith, and put the fear of death into him. Get him away from his flat and make sure that he stays away for a couple of hours – oh, and telephone me when you know he’s swallowed your bait.”

“I see,” said Chittering. “And what are you going to do?”

“Have a chat with Celia.”

“It’s a good job you’re a grass widower.”

“That’s all spoilt,” said Mannering, and rang off.

He turned and looked at Lorna more seriously, and she saw that there was calculating slant in his expression, could guess at the wildness of the thoughts that were passing through his mind There was devilment there, a flash of the daring and recklessness which she’d first seen and first begun to love.

“Well,” she said.

“I think you could help on this job,” said Mannering. “You could give her confidence. If she knew I trusted my wife with her, she’d feel much safer.”

“Who? Celia Fleming?”

“Of course.”

“What is your plan?”

“Next to nothing. I’ve been conning over the best way of making her boy friend really angry. The most obvious and the most likely to succeed would be to abscond with Celia. Just a little gentle job of kidnapping. Of course, you don’t have to come.”

Mannering pulled up outside 13 Buckley Street, and leaned across Lorna to open the door.

“We’re here,” Mannering announced portentously.

“I don’t see how you’re going to do it,” Lorna said. “But what I do see is that you’re taking a crazy chance.”

“How?”

“Everyone knows you’re here. The police car followed us, it’s round the corner now. You said yourself that a man is watching the flat – I can see him.” She gazed coldly at the crown of an unmoving hat. “Even if you managed to take Celia Fleming away, everyone would know who did it.”

“But this is to be a kidnapping with a difference,” Mannering murmured. “We mustn’t waste time. Chittering may not be able to hold our Mr. Smith very long, and it’s already half an hour since he telephoned.”

“I’m not moving from here until I know what you’re going to do.”

Mannering’s hand closed over hers.

“You worry too much. I’m going to ask Celia to come away with us. I shan’t use force, only persuasion.”

“She simply won’t come!”

“Even you’ll admit that there’s no harm in trying.”

With an air of holding a great many things she wished to say in reserve, Lorna got out.

The man in the unmoving hat had drawn it out of sight, but another, probably from the police car which had followed them, stood at the corner. The night was quiet and still. Here and there the yellow square of a lighted window stood out. The crooning of a love song came very faintly from a distant radio.

Mannering rang the bell.

Lorna, like an over tried but persistent guardian angel, stood by Mannering’s side. Even in the gloom, something could be seen of the devil-may-care look on his face.

A light flicked on.

“Supposing Smith is back already,” suggested Lorna.

Mannering grunted.

A woman opened the door. He guessed her to be Mrs. Morant. Plump and fluffy-haired, there was a hint of nervousness in her voice.

“Good evening.”

“Good evening,” said Mannering. “Is Miss Fleming in?”

“Well, she is, but she can’t see anyone. She’s resting.”

“She’ll see me,” said Mannering, authoritatively.

“She won’t see anyone.” The woman’s voice wavered.

Mannering smiled.

“She will, you know.”

Hardly aware that she was in retreat, the woman backed before him. Lorna slipped in after him, and closed the door. Mrs. Morant’s lips parted. One call would have brought the police to her aid, but she stood inertly against the wall, in a state of nervous hesitation.

“Nobody told me you were coming.”

“It’s a surprise visit,” said Mannering. “I’ve been here before, but will you lead the way up?”

“I’m not really sure that I ought to let you come up,” said Mrs. Morant, satisfying her own sense of indecision by this remark. Propelled upward, at each landing she turned and looked at Mannering, but didn’t speak. Arriving at a part of the flat he hadn’t yet visited, Mannering saw that the door was ajar.

“If you’ll just wait here, I’ll see if she’s presentable, she wouldn’t like –”

Mannering’s beaming smile cut across Mrs. Morant’s vagaries as he pushed the door open. This flat appeared to be made on exactly the same layout as the one opposite. Even the furniture was a replica.

Mrs. Morant, twittering half finished sentences, hurried towards the door which, across the landing, would have led to the study. As she did so, Celia appeared.

She wore a scarlet housecoat, expensively plain, and without trimming. Against it, her face seemed almost transparently white. Only her hair, curling inwards, gave the necessary touch of substance.

“Oh, Celia darling, the gentleman wouldn’t wait downstairs, I did ask him to.”

Mrs. Morant backed away, faintly wringing her hands.

“Hallo,” said Mannering, brightly. “May I present my wife?”

Celia looked at Lorna long and steadily. She took no notice of Mrs. Morant. Like her father, she seemed to have a habit of long silences. She was calmer than she had been at Chelsea.

“What is it?” she asked.

“I’ve a message from your mother.”

Celia started. Tension came to her, and with it, alarm.

“What message, please?”

“She wants to see you.”

“Oh, no!” cried Mrs. Morant. “You mustn’t leave here, Celia darling; you know Paul doesn’t like you to go out without telling him first. And you’ve that long journey in the morning!”