Shadow The Baron (21 page)

“Bristow isn’t certain. He’s promised to check. He’s pretty sure that it was Mrs. Fleming who killed Muriel. She was drunk, early in the evening, and he is fully aware of her past record.”

Mannering said: “That’s bad.”

“He’s not sure whether Fleming knows. He thinks it’s worth holding his hand for a day or two. He’s taken his men away from River Walk, too – but he says you’re in deeper waters than you realize. He didn’t say so, but it was fairly obvious that he believes that Smith, the Shadow, Lee and the Flemings, are all involved in big crime.”

“And what else?” asked Mannering.

Lorna didn’t answer at first; then she said evenly: “I’ve just had a call from Chittering.”

Mannering’s heart began to thump.

“And?”

“Smith’s found Celia. He must have followed Chittering. Chittering and Chloe were with Celia at the cottage when he attacked them. Neither of them is badly hurt, but Smith took Celia.”

Mannering left the car a short distance from Palling Street, and walked to the garage. The big man in his shirt-sleeves was working at a taxi, the nearside rear wheel of which was off. He didn’t glance at Mannering. Larraby was at the end of the street; he showed himself long enough for Mannering to see him, and then disappeared; there was no need to worry about his hiding place; Josh would do his job well.

Mannering knocked at the door.

It was several minutes before Mick opened it. He peered at the newcomer, and then stood against the wall. There seemed to be a click of finality in the sound of the closing door. Mick hadn’t yet said a word. Now he followed Mannering as he went slowly up the stairs.

He had an automatic in his pocket.

The door of Smith’s room was closed. Mannering tapped on the panel. The radiogram could be heard, tuned low; the sound of operatic music came faintly into the room. Mick stepped inside after Mannering, closing the door. His pinched face was dark with suspicion.

There was insolence in Smith’s manner as he sat back in his chair with studied nonchalance. Watching him, Mannering thought that Smith would behave like this if he were about to spring a trap. Mick stood by the door, openly making sure that Mannering couldn’t get away. It was difficult to look unmoved into Smith’s eyes, wondering whether they were piercing his disguise.

“What do you want?” Mannering demanded.

“You read my note. I’ve a special job. But before you get it, I want to be sure you can be trusted.”

“Why bother me, if you think I can’t be?”

Smith grinned, his teeth white and even and cruel. He was different, more confident, than he had been at Chelsea. It was hard to believe that the last time Mannering had seen him he had been on his hands and knees, glaring with hatred at Fleming.

“I know a lot about you, Mr. Brown. The police would like to know where you live and what you do for a living, wouldn’t they?”

Mannering said: “I haven’t come here to waste my time.”

“You’re not wasting it. On the contrary, I feel it’s well invested, for I have a job for you. You’re to get certain books and papers for me. I can tell you where they’re likely to be. When you’ve found them, you’re to bring them straight to me. The slightest delay and I shall telephone the police and tell them where you’ve been. Understand?”

“You can trust me,” Mannering muttered, his voice as offhand as he could make it.

“Possibly, but I’m making quite sure. Have you heard of an antique shop, called Quinns?”

“Well, I seem to have,” Mannering said. “It’s in Mayfair isn’t it?” He broke off, with deliberate hesitation. Smith was watching him closely; it was not improbable that the question was a trap.

“What’s on your mind?” Smith growled.

“That’s Mannering’s place.”

“You a friend of Mannering?’’

“Friend! Why, he’s dangerous! He’s as close as that with the police. It’s asking for trouble.” Mannering threw a hint of truculence into his words. “It would be walking into the lion’s den. I can’t do it.’

“Oh, yes, you can,” Smith said. “And if you don’t find what you want there, you’ll go on to Mannering’s fiat. Know where that is?”

Mannering gave a surly shake to his head.

“I’ll give you the address,” said Smith. “No ducking and no double crossing, Brown, or I’ll have that disguise off you, and that’s the way you’ll look when the police arrive. Understand?”

“But I can’t –”

“What tools have you brought with you?”

“I’ll have to go and get them.”

“No you won’t. You’ll use what we can give you. You’ll get your two hundred pounds when you’ve finished the job – that’s if you finish it properly. Otherwise – “, Smith turned his thumb downwards. “Don’t make any mistake.”

“I tell you it’s crazy!”

“Maybe it is. But you’ll do it. When you first came here I didn’t know where you lived or anything about you, but I’ve found out a lot since then.”

“I wish I hadn’t had anything to do with you,” whined Mannering. “I’ve got along all right by myself –”

“You’ll get your orders from Mick,” Smith said sharply. “He’ll tell you where to take the stuff.”

“I don’t fancy –”

“You don’t have to worry about what you fancy,” Smith said. “Fix him up with tools, Mick, and then take him round. Keep your eyes on him.”

Menace travelled from man to man.

They did not know that he was Mannering; but they had told him exactly what they were going to do. It wasn’t hard to guess. If he found the documents, they would kill him. But the documents wouldn’t be found.

Would they use him again?

He might snatch at a chance tonight: work on Mick, if necessary. But first, win Mick’s confidence –

A taxi waited outside, with a man at the wheel. Mick climbed in after Mannering, who carried a waistband roll of tools, not unlike his own. Mick had told him that in the back of the taxi there was an oxy-acetylene outfit.

They passed Larraby near the Austin.

Larraby would follow; would that be good or bad? Mick would probably notice the Austin.

He was smoking.

Mannering said: “We can’t start yet.”

“You can have a good look at both places, to see the best way of getting in.”

“Sure – sure.”

“And you’d better not make excuses.”

“It’s a crazy job,” Mannering muttered. “You’re taking the risk, too, you ought to be more careful.”

“Just you do what you’re told.”

“Okay,” Mannering said, and sank back, sulkily.

He could so easily deal with Mick, the driver and Smith. He could attract police attention and hand these two men over; take Bristow to the garage and be sure that there was damning evidence there, against all three. It was the easiest thing he had ever been able to do, but – he wouldn’t know the whole solution if he did that. He wouldn’t know the Shadow; or the final truth. There was personal tragedy here, strong emotional currents which might mar Celia for life; and mar others. He had to go on.

Any lingering possibility that Smith was the Shadow had gone completely. If Smith were able to break into houses as easily as the thief, he wouldn’t have employed “Brown”. Nor did Smith know other cracksmen on whom he could rely; he wouldn’t have used an unknown man, if there had been. Smith was just a receiver, and the Shadow was still unknown.

Smith was cock-a-hoop now. He would probably telephone the flat, for Mannering, just to brag. Smith was so sure that he held the trumps.

They reached Bond Street.

Mick said: “Here you are – first on the left, it’s Hart Row. Quinns is the third shop along.”

Mannering got out with a certain show of reluctance. He saw a car coming towards them, and when it passed, recognised the Austin with Larraby at the wheel. Mannering turned towards Quinns. The narrow street was empty, and there was only one light. Those at the dress salon next door were fairly bright, but in Quinns, the main illumination was at the end of the shop, to enable patrolling police to see that all was well.

Mannering made pretence of examining the front door, and then walked towards the end of the street. Half way along was a narrow alley, which led to the back of Quinns. Mannering knew that the only way of forcing entry was by a window or from the roof; both were difficult, and would take time.

He stood looking at the windows.

Sylvester had locked them all; Sylvester would take no chance. The burglar alarm system would be on, but there was no danger from that. Mannering knew exactly where to find it, what measures to take against it. He could convince Mick that he was an artist at his job all right, but – what would happen when he failed to find the documents? What had Smith and Mick planned? Was it murder?

Mick loomed at his elbow.

“Not so much messing about. Just get into that shop.”

“Now?” Mannering’s voice rose. “With the police passing every few minutes!”

Mick pressed a gun into his ribs.

“Now,” he said.

It was remarkable how little he knew about his own premises; the unexpected fittings, the care with which the burglar alarm system had been installed. It wasn’t made easier by the presence of Mick, with the gun. There was little risk of them being seen at the back, except by the patrolling police, and Mannering lost no time forcing the window. He crept cautiously along the narrow passages and down the stairs, as if he were feeling his way. He used a hooded torch; and all the time, Mick followed him. He reached the office door. If he worked at it, he would be seen in the light; that was the great risk.

He kept in the shadows.

“Having a nap?” Mick sneered.

“Go and see if the police are around,” Mannering said. “I’m not going to start here until they’ve passed on the next round. We’ll have half an hour, then.”

Mick crept towards the window. There was absolute silence in the shop. Then someone appeared outside, and a torch shone into the window. The beam was diffused by the glass. With the light fixed near the office door, added to the torch glow, Mannering could see Mick clearly; and he knew that a constable was outside.

The man tried the door, shook it vigorously, and then passed on.

Mick crept back. “Okay, now.”

The lock was a good one; it would have been much more difficult to open, if Mannering hadn’t known the mechanism inside out. As it was, it took ten minutes. When the door opened, Mick stepped swiftly past him. Mick wasn’t a fool. He found the safe, almost at once; and found, also that it led to vaults in the cellar. He didn’t keep his gun in sight, but gave orders peremptorily. He examined the contents of the safe, and swore when there were none of the papers.

Mannering muttered: “You make too much noise. How do you expect me to do my job?”

“You just do it,” Mick said.

There were no documents at Quinns; Mick was forced to accept this fact when they had opened the last of the five big safes in the strong room. But there were hundreds of thousands of pounds worth of jewels and objets d’art. When he’d finished his fruitless search Mick stood back in speculation.

“We could get away with a fortune, and by gum we will. I saw a couple of suitcases upstairs. Get them.”

Mannering went upstairs, taking longer than was necessary. He found the cases, and together they crammed the jewels and small objets into them.

“If Mannering gets on to us,” Mannering began, “he’ll –”

“Don’t you worry about that. We’ll fix Mannering some other way.” Mick took something from his pocket – a small canister, with a round lid. He put it by a safe, and then took it away. “No, I know a better place.”

“Where is it?”

“Just mind your own business.”

Mannering shrugged, and led the way upstairs. In the office, Mick put the canister in the middle drawer of the desk. He half closed the drawer. Mannering watched him closely.

“I want to know what that is.”

“If you read about a fire in the morning, you’ll know,” said Mick. “If you read about it!”

The hint of menace was strong; but Mannering almost missed it. The canister obviously contained explosive or liquid fire; it was probably worked mechanically, and would go off during the night. If it were efficient, and

Smith probably would make sure of that, it would start a blaze that might demolish Quinns.

He could deal with Mick, now, and remove the fire canister; or he could wait a little longer.

“Get a move on, we’ve finished here,” Mick said.

They got out unseen, loaded the cases into the taxi, climbed in, and drove off. Mick didn’t speak. Mannering wiped his neck, and watched a policeman on his rounds. They reached Oxford Street, turned into a narrow side street, where another cab was waiting.

“We change cabs here,” Mick said.

“Why –”

“You talk too much!”

The cab with the fortune from Quinns moved off. Mick and Mannering sat in the other, and Mick told the driver to make for Chelsea.

Mannering said: “We can’t do the flat yet, there’s bound to be someone there!”

“There won’t. Smith’s fixed it.”

Mannering said: “He can’t fix Mannering like that!”

“If we come across Mannering, we’ll know what to do,” Mick said. “You just obey orders.”

“His wife –”

Mick laughed. “Don’t you worry about his wife. She had a message a little while ago, and she left in a hurry. She won’t come back quite so quickly, though.”

Mannering said harshly: “You take too many chances. You haven’t hurt her, have you?”

“What’s that to you?”

“Plenty,” Mannering said. “I don’t want to get mixed up in any violence. I’ve never done a violent job in my life.”

“You’ll be in one now, if you don’t stop talking,” Mick said.

Mannering sat back in the corner, flaming anxiety in his mind. He didn’t question the truth of Mick’s statement; he could believe that Lorna, not expecting to be involved, would be easily fooled by a message. Smith had hit back, hard and fast; first Celia, now Lorna. Mannering kept his gaze away from Mick, hardly able to trust himself to keep still.

They were held up in a traffic block.

“What are all these papers about?” he demanded.