Shadow The Baron (2 page)

“Nothing.”

“Any idea what he does with the stuff?”

“Either he’s keeping it in cold storage until the heat’s switched off, or he’s sending it abroad. I think it goes abroad – there aren’t many of his sort who can afford to wait months before they turn the stuff into money. I’m having a special check at the Channel ports and all airports. If we find that someone who left the country after one of the other jobs goes this time, we can hold him for questioning. We might find the stuff on him, too.”

“But you don’t think so.”

“I’m almost past thinking,” said Bristow. “Except crazy ideas.” He smiled faintly.

“How crazy?”

“Completely.”

“I see,” said Anderson-Kerr. He rose decisively, and moved to the window. “Set a thief to catch a thief?” he suggested.

Bristow said: “So it’s been in your mind, too?”

“I keep turning it out. The Shadow is beginning to win as big a reputation as that enjoyed by the Baron in the bad old days. The Baron used the same methods, barred violence, had the same uncanny knack of getting in and out of places without being seen, and could do what he liked with any safe he tackled. They must use the same wand! Now if the Baron went after the Shadow–” He broke off.

‘There’s a difference.”

“What is it?”

“After the third job, I knew the Baron was John Mannering. After ten jobs, I don’t know the Shadow. That makes the Shadow the better man – so far.”

“Hmm.” Anderson-Kerr swung round. “Oh, forget it. It’s impossible. We can’t use Mannering.”

Bristow half closed his eyes.

“I knew Mannering as the Baron, and he got away with it. The vital little bit of evidence was always missing. He’s played the fool in a thousand ways since the Baron days, but he’s no longer a thief. Whether he’d work against the Shadow on the present score, I don’t know. He would, if a murder were committed, but –” Bristow shrugged.

“We’re both getting soft in the head,” growled Anderson-Kerr. “We can’t use him.”

“We couldn’t approach him ourselves on this kind of job,” Bristow agreed. “But we might fix something. One of the Shadow’s earlier victims was Toby Plender. Plender and Mannering used to be fairly intimate. Now if Plender asked Mannering –” Bristow broke off, rubbing his chin. “We could rely on Plender. He’s a first class lawyer and a very good friend. If I dropped a hint to him, he might make a personal appeal to Mannering, and Mannering would probably jump to it. Like me to try?”

“I see no cause why we shouldn’t do that,” said Anderson-Kerr slowly, “except that Mannering would probably guess the reason, if Plender suggests it now – the Plender job is, after all, four months old.”

Bristow smiled; he looked more cheerful than when he had walked across Leicester Square.

“It doesn’t matter what Mannering guesses, and he probably has a pretty good idea what we’re feeling, already. Shall I see Plender?”

“Go ahead,” said Anderson-Kerr.

Bristow hummed to himself as he walked along the passages, and beamed at Gordon as he sat down at his desk. The sound of the traffic on the Embankment was loud this morning, for the window was open. Ponderously, fatefully, Big Ben chimed the hour.

“Caught the Shadow?” inquired Gordon.

Bristow laughed.

“We’ve decided on a different bait.”

“Ah. No one can say you’ve rushed things,” Gordon said sardonically.

He cogitated the advisability of saying more, decided it was unwise, but continued with heavy recklessness, “The trouble with you is that your heart rules your head. It’s a good fault sometimes but at others it robs the Public Prosecutor of a job. In this case, for instance, you’ve done it to such effect that you won’t even look in the obvious place. I know you’re touchy on the subject, that’s why I didn’t broach it before. But there comes a time . . .” he paused, appalled at his own temerity, but doggedly determined to go on. “I’ve taken the trouble to have a house in Chelsea watched. On the two nights when the Shadow has done his job, a certain gentleman living in the said house has been out late. Very late. Late enough to have done the job. Mannering is the Shadow. When are you going to wake up to it. Bill?”

Mr. Tobias Plender, Q.C., had a large practice, a good reputation, a beautiful wife and plenty of money. Yet there were times when the look in his grey eyes was sombre. On the afternoon of the first day of March it was excessively so. He was sitting in his club, for he had lingered over lunch and there was nothing of pressing urgency in his chambers. The room, large, high and furnished in heavy reds and browns, overlooked the Mall.

Plender leaned back, his eyes hooded, his long, pale hands resting lightly on the arms of this chair. In front of him was a small table, and on it several evening papers, and the headlines about the Shadow’s latest burglary were visible in all of them.

A solitary waiter, watching lynx-eyed for the crook of a finger which might summon him to the first club member who wanted tea, was startled when Plender, without warning or apparent premeditation, jumped to his feet and strode towards the door.

“Good day, sir. Lovely day.”

“Foul,” said Plender, and moved on. He was tall, large boned to the point of ungainliness, yet there was a curious ease about his movements. He went no further than the telephone booths, where he dialled a Chelsea number. Almost immediately a woman’s voice answered him.

“This is Lorna Mannering.”

“And this is Toby Plender.”

“Toby! We haven’t heard from you for ages.”

“I work,” said Plender. “I can’t afford to have the wife of a millionaire art dealer painting my portrait. I can’t afford –”

Lorna was laughing.

“You’re wrong again,” she said. “I regret, no millionaire; no art dealer.”

“John is near enough to both,” said Toby. His voice low pitched, held a touch of that magic with which he swayed the mind of jurors. “How are you, my dear?”

“Fine.”

“Where’s John?”

“At the shop, as far as I know.”

“That may not be far enough to keep him there until I arrive. Some myrmidon, bowing obsequiously will very much regret that he has just been called away, on pressing business” I know. I employ a few myrmidons out of the same box myself.”

“He’ll be there,” said Lorna confidently. “Toby, try and fix an evening together. All four, I mean, not just you and John. I’d love that.”

“I will not be painted,” stated Toby, with theatrical vehemence. “All love, my dear.”

He rang off and stepped out of the telephone booth.

He frowned. Frowning, he was an impressive looking man. He nodded curtly to the porter at the great doors, and walked towards his car. He drove the massive black monster slowly towards the thicker traffic and, once there, beat two sets of traffic lights. It took him little more than ten minutes to reach New Bond Street. He parked it in a space vacated at the moment of his arrival, accepting his luck with the unconsciousness of a successful man.

His face was still grooved in seriousness as he walked towards a narrow street nearby, known as Hart Row. In Hart Row there were a few exclusive shops, which served the influential and the rich. In only one of these shops was a poor man genuinely welcome, but even there he could not have found anything within his pocket’s reach. This shop was the smallest of the few, narrow and single fronted, with dark, oiled woodwork, and in gilt Old English lettering on the fascia board, the single word, Quinns.

In the window a Genoese silver table, breathtaking in its beauty, stood against a background of dark blue velvet. It was just possible to see beyond, into the long narrow shop. As Plender touched the handle, the door opened and a tall, silvery haired man with the face of an archangel, bowed from the waist.

“Good afternoon, sir.”

“Good afternoon,” said Plender, his frown deepening, “You’re new, aren’t you?”

“I have served Mr. Mannering for two years, sir.”

“Then either you’ve been out when I’ve called or I haven’t called,” said Plender. “It can’t be two years! Plender – Mr. Toby Plender. Mr. Mannering will see me.”

“If you will please wait for one moment, sir.”

Alone, Plender had time to glance at a few of the pieces near at hand, caskets and cabinets, miniatures, vases – all precious and valuable things – before the man he had come to see appeared from the dim recess of the shop with out flung hands.

“Well, well!” Mannering said. “I thought the next time I’d see you, you’d be leading the prosecution against me.”

“There’s time,” said Plender. “Well, John?”

“Brimming over.”

“Switzerland to blame?”

“I haven’t set foot in Switzerland for three years,” Mannering said, and took the other by the arm and led him towards the rear of the shop. “Don’t disturb us, Sylvester,” he said to the white haired man, who bowed his practised bow, and was at hand to close the door of a small office.

A small desk, its beauty hidden because of the narrowness of the space round it was pushed close against the far wall. Behind it was a swivel armchair, of severe office mode, and two others, rather more comfortable. Filing cabinets, shelves crammed with large books and the shining knob of a combination safe, made up the furniture.

Plender rubbed the bridge of his nose, a gesture with which judges, jurors and jail inmates all over England were familiar. His gaze raked the office, and came to rest finally on Mannering.

“Remarkable,” he said.

“What is?”

“The similarity. You only have to change the furniture, and you’d have a prison cell.”

“Homely,” Mannering said. “Sit down. Tea?”

“Thanks, later.” Plender accepted a cigarette. His eyes were still sombre, although his lips smiled. “You really look younger,” he announced. “It must be the Devil in you; he can invert the usual processes if he’s so minded, so I’m told.”

“I wouldn’t know,” said Mannering.

“Wouldn’t you?” Plender leaned back in his chair and rubbed his nose again. Mannering’s smile remained, but the glow of welcome had faded from his eyes. They appraised each other, two men who had once been close friends and who had drifted, more by accident and Plender’s calling, than by design. They were about the same age, Plender at forty-one, a little older.

“You’re wrong,” Mannering announced, at last.

“I doubt it. About what?”

“Whatever dark reasoning brought you here.”

Plender said abruptly: “John, why do you do it? All this, I mean, and I don’t mean the office.” He raised his eyebrows. “The shop – daily grind – servitude. Regency period manners, a place steeped in the past and meant to be nostalgic. Why?”

“Modern business methods applied to my job.”

“Lost all your money?”

“I am still what is referred to in certain government circles as a bloated capitalist.”

“So you don’t need to run a shop?”

“For money, no. You wouldn’t understand doing a thing for the love of it, would you?”

Plender chuckled.

“Your trick. You don’t love being a counter jumper, surely?”

“But Sylvester adores it. How can I disappoint him? Besides, I like the things I buy and sell. Not worrying whether I make a profit or not helps me to enjoy it. However, the profit is there.”

“Hum,” said Plender.

Mannering said: “Toby, I told you how wrong you were – and you still are. Listen carefully.” He paused, and when the pause was almost unendurable, went on: “I never did it, Guv’nor, so help me, I never did it. It’s them perlice. Always arter me, they are, won’t let a man earn an’onest living.”

His voice changed, took on a nasal whine, and appeared to come from the side of his mouth; his lips hardly moved. He hunched his shoulders and put his head on one side, and somehow the gay and handsome man was no longer there, instead a scared yet malignant individual looked at Plender out of narrowed eyes.

He stopped; and became himself again.

Plender said; “Exhibitionism. John, listen to me, we were once close friends. The reason we haven’t seen much of each other is not that I know you were the Baron. Personally, I liked the bloke – as the Baron, I mean. But I prefer the legend to the fact. He died – remember?”

Mannering murmured: “And you don’t like his shadow.”

Plender stubbed out his cigarette. There was neither sound nor movement.

“I do not like his shadow,” he agreed at last.

“Why should you? He robbed you.” Mannering smiled without gaiety. He hesitated, and then said deliberately: “That is one thing which makes me want to take a poke at you, Toby. Then we could make up and be friends. I was the Baron and you know it. The Baron did not rob his friends. If you want convincing proof that the Shadow is a shadow and not substance, that’s it”

Plender relaxed.

“No apology,” he said. “I’d just moved. No one was to know that I lived in that house, or that my wife would lose her diamonds. You’re not your own shadow?”

“I am not”

“Not exactly my mistake,” said Plender. “I feared rather than believed it. Ever thought of trying to catch this Shadow, John?”

Mannering eyed him levelly for some seconds, then smiled faintly, lifted the telephone and said: “We’ll have tea now, Sylvester,” and replaced the receiver with great deliberation; and all the time he watched Plender, who didn’t shift his gaze. The receiver went ting. Mannering withdrew his hand, and drummed the fingers gently on the desk.

“Did Bristow send you?” he asked.

Plender laughed without answering, Mannering’s smile broadened as he opened a drawer in the desk and took out a manilla folder. It was very like the one which had been on Anderson-Kerr’s desk, but not so well filled. He opened it and turned over the papers inside. Plender watched Mannering, not the papers.

“So Bristow did ask you to look in,” said Mannering.

“If he did, it was forgiving of him.’’

“Sure?” Mannering took out several sheets of paper covered with typewritten notes, and slipped it across the desk. “There’s hardly a job in which the Yard doesn’t need an expert of one kind or another. Bill’s up against the old brick wall. I can go to places where he can’t, and a buyer of jewels will be trusted where a Yard man is always shown the door. In your hand, you hold a note of every job that the Shadow’s done.”