Shadow The Baron (8 page)

10 o’clock ................ Mr. Plender, no message.

10.45 ...................... Mr. Plender, no message.

11.30 ...................... A man rang up but wouldn’t give his name.

12.20 ...................... A man rang up, the same one I think, and wouldn’t give his name.

He took a deep drink, and carried glass and slip of paper to the chair. He frowned as he read it again. Who was the mysterious caller? And why had Toby tried to get him twice on the same evening? There was probably a simple explanation of Toby Plender’s call, there was no reason why he shouldn’t try again if he were unlucky the first time; but who had the anonymous caller been?

He began to build menace into those last two calls. Who would want to speak to him at twenty past twelve?

There was no telling whether anyone else had called up later, or whether the same man had tried to ring him again. Hetty had probably dropped off to sleep quickly, and she was a heavy sleeper. The telephone bell was some distance from her bedroom.

He looked at the telephone. There was an extension in the hall, another in the drawing room. He frowned towards it, as if willing it to ring, or to tell him how many times in the past hour and a half, it had been ringing without getting a response.

He finished his whisky, and put the glass down.

Then the telephone rang.

He stood up, slowly, torn between the temptation to let it go on ringing, and the desire to know who was calling him. He glanced at his watch; it was now nearly two fifteen. The ringing went on, persistent and regular. He reached the telephone, and lifted the receiver slowly. He yawned, near the mouthpiece, and spoke in a voice which seemed heavy with sleep.

“Hallo? Who’s that?”

“Is that Mr. Mannering?”

“Yes.” He yawned again. “Who . . .”

The caller rang off.

The worst of the mysterious telephone call was that he didn’t understand the reason for it. He stood watching the instrument, as if it would wake to life again; and then turned abruptly to the window. Switching the light off, he pulled the curtains aside, and stared into the street. He could see the doorway where the man had been hiding, but could not see the man. Fighting down a growing lassitude, he continued to stand there, and at last he was rewarded. A car appeared, its headlights pinpointing for less than a second the man who had been watching. The car slowed and stopped, the headlights went out. Everything seemed pitch dark after that, but when the effect of the glare had gone, he saw two men talking. A third joined them; a policeman in uniform.

There was nothing more to learn, he might as well go to bed. But his lassitude had been blasted away.

It was obvious that the police had been checking, to find out whether he had been in during the evening and now knew that he hadn’t. The watcher would be able to say that he had not returned by the front door, so the police would know he had returned by the back way; and risked the wall climb.

They would want to know why.

He knew that Chief Inspector Gordon was constantly on the alert, hoping to catch him out; that with the activities of the Shadow, there was bound to be a revival of interest in the Baron. Here, in the darkness of the small hours, it was easy to believe that Bristow would misconstrue his reason for refusing to help “catch” the Shadow; that the police were building up a strong case against him; that they knew he had been out tonight; that they knew he had been at Buckley Street, which explained the reason for their raid. The police had hoped to catch him red-handed.

They’d rung up, at intervals, and knew what time he had been out.

They would probably let him settle down; thinking that there would be no further scare tonight, and then they would call.

To have all his wits about him he must stay awake. It would be foolish even to doze. He didn’t feel like smoking or reading; but gradually, too slowly to cause alarm, tiredness crept over him.

He heard three o’clock strike.

He couldn’t keep his eyes open.

He went to sleep.

He heard voices, and one of them was a man’s.

He woke on the instant, listening intently; a woman was talking. It was Hetty, and she was complaining and excusing herself at the same time. She couldn’t take upon herself to wake Mr. Mannering. She’d already been in with his tea and he hadn’t stirred, she might lose her job if she woke him. Actually she knew she wouldn’t lose it, which meant that she had a strong reason for not wanting him to be disturbed; or that was what he assumed. He pushed the bedclothes back. After the first shock of sudden waking, he felt clear headed. The bedside clock showed that it was a little after nine.

As he climbed out of bed and put on his dressing gown, he heard the man say “Hetty, I must see him, I tell you.” He recognised the voice as Larraby’s.

Mannering grinned and relaxed, and opened the door wide. They didn’t notice him when he stepped into the hall. Hetty, big and cumbersome, a country girl thoroughly enjoying a strict sense of duty, was barring Larraby’s path.

“Hetty, you’re fired,” said Mannering.

Hetty jumped and turned round, her mouth opening in astonishment.

“Unless you make me some tea right away,” added Mannering.

“Oh, I. will, sir. Mr. Larraby shouldn’t have disturbed you, I’m ever so sorry; I did try to make him keep his voice down.” She glared at Larraby with the self-righteousness of a conscientious servant who knew her worth, and was determined that others should know it also.

“Come in, Josh,” Mannering said. “What’s up?”

“Is everything all right, sir?”

“Why shouldn’t it be?”

“I was nervous,” said Larraby. His habitually serene expression was tinged with anxiety as he took a bundle of newspapers from under his arm. “You haven’t seen these, have you?” He held them out. “I felt that I had to come and tell you what might happen this morning.”

Mannering didn’t glance at the papers.

“All right, Josh – but first, what happened last night?”

“I was there for over an hour, and then a man came up and let them out,” said Josh. “I couldn’t see him clearly, but it was a young chap. Well dressed, too. They talked for a bit, and then Smith went off in a taxi. The other two stayed at the garage. I was tempted to follow Smith, but even if I’d wanted to I hadn’t another cab. I kept away from Buckley Street – I hope that was right, Mr. Mannering.”

“More right than you know,” said Mannering.

He unfolded the top paper. The headline seemed to leap out at him:

SHADOW STRIKES AGAIN

£20,000 MAYFAIR HAUL

The Shadow, notorious jewel thief, struck again in the early hours of the morning, and escaped with £20,000 worth of jewels from the Morley Square home of Sir James Leeson. The theft . . .

“Are they all the same, Josh?”

“Very much the same. But there is another thing, sir. I heard a rumour this morning that the police know who the Shadow is, and hope to make an arrest soon. I also heard that there had been a burglary at Buckley Street. I assumed that you went to Buckley Street again, and – Larraby broke off, and gave a little, hesitant smile. “I’m a little confused, but I was very anxious you should be informed about the rumour that the police have a line on the man at last.”

“Very sensible of you,” Mannering said. “Have you had breakfast, Josh?”

“Well . . .”

“Go and make peace with Hetty over bacon and eggs,” Mannering said. “Then slip out, and stay away until I send for you. Have you decided where to stay yet?”

“At the Grayville – a small place in Dover Street, sir. I know the management and can have a room with a telephone.”

Alone again, Mannering drank hot tea and smoked a cigarette, keeping an ear cocked for the front door bell. It didn’t ring. He shaved and bathed, and had breakfast, and it was half past ten before he had finished. By then, Larraby had gone.

The telephone bell rang, suddenly.

Mannering lifted the receiver warily. “John Mannering speaking.”

“Hold on, please, I’ve a call from Salisbury for you.”

Salisbury meant Lorna. He leaned back, beaming.

“Darling.” Lorna’s voice was faint

“I’ve been waiting for the past hour for this,” said Mannering, with reproach that became genuine the moment he had voiced it.

“Darling, are you all right?”

“Of course I’m all right.”

“Why aren’t you at the shop?”

“I woke up too late.”

“John, have you seen the newspapers?”

“I have, indeed.”

“John, were you out late last night?”

“Not so late apparently as the Shadow.”

There was a pause, and then Lorna said in a more definite voice: “I wish I knew whether to believe you or not.”

“It’s not worth the effort, my dear, believe me in that. How’s your mother?”

“Not too good,” Lorna said, “I can’t leave her, otherwise, of course, I’d be in London with you. I don’t trust you on your own. John, be careful. Don’t take any risks.”

“I’m growing older and wiser,” Mannering said.

“Older, certainly. Telephone me sometime tonight.”

“I will,” promised Mannering. “And if you think I ought to come to Salisbury . . .”

“I would like you to, though I can’t pretend it’s a matter of life and death,” Lorna said. “Just be careful.”

She rang off, abruptly. Mannering replaced the receiver, seeing his wife in his mind’s eye. He sat back for ten minutes, with the same thoughtful expression on his face, then picked up the newspapers, and read them thoroughly for the first time. He scanned them for the slightest detail that might help, and then threw them aside. He felt restless, anxious to know what had transpired at Buckley Street, in one way glad that the desk safe had been empty. If the police had found a haul there, Smith and the girl would by now be lodged at the police station. The papers said nothing about an arrest.

Why hadn’t he heard from Bristow?

Could he have been wrong about the identity of the man who had been watching the flat?

He would have assumed that he had, but for the memory of the uniformed figure who had joined the other two. Bristow knew he had been out; Bristow was probably certain that he was the burglar of Buckley Street. Mannering checked over all that had happened and what he had said to the girl; he could find no weak link. He’d left no prints, nothing with which he could be identified. Bristow would be furious, the constables he had bowled over would probably be even more so, but there was nothing the police could do.

Bristow wasn’t likely to ask for his help again in a hurry.

Then the front door bell rang.

He listened, as Hetty plodded heavily across the hall. Her words were indistinct. But he recognised the voice of the man who spoke; it was Bristow.

Bristow came in, smiling broadly. He crossed the study and shook hands. The gardenia in his buttonhole was fresh, his suit was newly pressed, he seemed to be at peace with the world; this wasn’t the harassed and mortified policeman Mannering had pictured in his mind’s eye.

“Hallo, John. Feeling off colour?”

“I’m fine,” said Mannering cautiously.

“If tactlessness might be forgiven an old friend, you certainly don’t look it,” said Bristow. “Thanks.” He lit a cigarette and sat down carefully adjusting the crease of his trousers. “So you had a lie-in this morning.”

“Time being my own,” Mannering said. The years had taught him to beware of an affable Bristow.

“Lucky beggar, I wish I could suit myself as you do. Where did you go last night? The Lulu?”

“Why the Lulu?”

“I have my spies in unexpected places!”

“Including my doorstep,” Mannering said, smiling dryly. “He had a shock last night, didn’t he?”

“Eh?”

“Such innocence, Bill!” said Mannering. “He didn’t see me come in, and was shaken when he discovered I was, in fact, in the flat.”

“Must be a Divisional job,” said Bristow, “I didn’t know anything about it. Did you dodge him?”

“No point in losing one’s touch,” Mannering said airily.

“How did you get in?”

“What an insatiable appetite the police have for detail! The significant point is that I was awakened by a mysterious voice on the telephone.”

“Now I wonder who’s that could have been,” said Bristow. “I’ll have to find out! Didn’t you have a chat with Toby Plender recently?”

Mannering raised his eyebrows.

“John, I wish I’d come to you myself, instead of approaching you through Plender. I should have known you’d guess who prompted him. There’s a lot you could to help.”

“How?” asked Mannering.

“I can’t go into that unless you decide to help,” said Bristow. “That’s reasonable, isn’t it? And if you think that I’ve a notion that the Baron and the Shadow are one and the same man, forget it. Some people may think so, but I know better. You know he was about again last night, I suppose.”

“The newspapers conveyed that much to me,” murmured Mannering.

“He’s probably going to be a thorn in our flesh for a long time to come.” Bristow’s frankness was disarming, but behind it was a keen and probing mind. He was convinced that Mannering had been out the previous night, had made sure Mannering realised that he knew. “You know, I think this is the work of more than one man, the method of approach being identical. It’s only a guess, and I don’t use it officially, but I’ve a feeling that I’m not far wrong. John, you’ve channels of information we can’t get at. Have you heard of any of the Shadow’s stuff being on the market anywhere?”

“Nowhere, Bill.”

“Pity. Has it occurred to you that he might be unloading the stuff across the Channel?”

“I haven’t thought much about it,” Mannering said.

“Well, it’s time you did! But I mustn’t stay, I’ve a lot to do.” Bristow rose slowly from his chair. “Seriously, John, if you feel you can help us against the Shadow, we’d jump at the chance. It isn’t a normal job. Anderson-Kerr is quite amenable. Great Scott, look at the time!” He shook hands again, brisk and breezy, not waiting for Mannering to open either door. “I’ll look forward to hearing from you,” he said, and bustled down the stairs.