Shadow The Baron (9 page)

Mannering closed the door behind him, smoothed down his hair, and began to whistle. He went back into the study and watched from the window. He saw Bristow’s green Morris parked outside, the Yard man climb in. Looking across the road, he saw that a man was still on duty in the doorway of the empty house, making no attempt, by day, to conceal himself. The man saluted as the car moved off; evidence that he was a Yard man and that Bristow knew he was there. Bristow’s breeziness wasn’t worth a moment’s serious thought. Bristow had come to confuse and bewilder him; a kind of warning off. Could Bristow be thinking that the Shadow was the Baron?

Mannering spent half an hour at Quinns, then drove to Fleet Street, parked his car near Ludgate Circus and walked to the Red Lion public house. It was approached from a narrow side street and beneath a wide arch, where once carriages and post-chaises had rattled over the cobbles and lamp-boys had sprung to attention as the guests arrived. The Red Lion remained an attractive building, with bottle glass windows, and a lichened roof, its door always open to receive guests. There were few casual callers, most who visited it were habitués; and most of the habitués had some connection with Fleet Street.

A blast of hot air from an open fireplace greeted Mannering as he entered. He nodded amiably to the two or three men sitting around and went into the main bar. It was early, but the bar was crowded.

A few men glanced at the newcomer, one of them called: “Come and join us, Mannering.”

“I wish I could,” said Mannering.

He caught sight of a small curly haired man standing in a corner, with a pint tankard in his hand. Bright blue eyes flickered over Mannering. A hint of a smile followed.

Mannering joined him.

The curly haired man lifted a tankard from a tray which was being carried past him, and offered it.

“Thirsty?”

“Thanks. Got a story for me, John?”

“Afraid not, I’m merely a grass-widower with time on his hands. How is Chittering of the Record these days?”

The expression in the blue eyes was one of utmost candour. “Put me down as a hard chap to convince, but I don’t believe in the innocence of grass-widowers. I suspect that the great J.M. is thirsty for information and will drink beer with the lowly in order to get what he wants. Will you have a bite with me?”

“Thanks.”

“Suspicions confirmed,” said Chittering. “I have a telephone call to make and a quiet corner to reserve. I’ll be seeing you.” He wandered off, tankard in hand, and others surged upon Mannering. There had been a rumour that Quinns had been robbed, was it true? If so, Mannering had been damned close about it. The rumour, it transpired, had started from a nightclub, known as Lulu’s. Mannering was bland; it had been a false alarm.

“Haven’t you some Heath Robinson burglar proof contraptions?” asked a large man with a bald head.

“Nothing is burglar proof.”

“Can I quote you?”

“Certainly.”

“Tied up with the Shadow?”

“Will nothing I say convince you?” cried Mannering in mock despair.

Chittering passing through the crowded room like a wraith, led the way up the narrow, twisted stairs to the smallest of three dining rooms. The head waiter greeted Mannering warmly. The wine was already on the table.

They ordered with due care.

“Now what?” asked Chittering, settling back in his chair. “You needn’t say it, everything’s off the record at the moment. The Shadow?”

“What makes you think so?”

“Your pal Plender,” said Chittering. “I hear rumours. Rumour one – the great J.M. and his beautiful wife were at the Lulu Club with the distinguished T.B., Q.C., and his vivacious wife. Rumour two – J.M. is called out to an emergency, at Quinns. Rumour three – Mrs. Plender is sorrowing over the loss of a family heirloom. Known fact – the heirloom gets back. Rumour – J.M. brought influence to bear upon the Shadow.”

Mannering looked alarmed.

“How far has that rumour spread?”

“I’ve just started it”

“You’re a public danger,” Mannering said.

“Oh, no. Just a danger to famous jewel collectors who masquerade as shopkeepers,” said Chittering. “Ah!” There were oysters. “What’s it all about, John?” he asked, as the last of a dozen finished its journey.

“There was a raid on a house in the Adelphi last night,” said Mannering.

“How do you get to know things? It didn’t reach the Street until half-past eleven, I doubt if it was published until after you got here. A damp squib, though. There was a shot or two fired at a flat in Buckley Street. Hardly a story, except that a beautiful damsel fired it in defence, she says, of her honour. As she was locked in the bathroom, there is some doubt about that. A wide awake constable heard the fireworks, and called for help. He had already discovered that the downstairs lock had been forced. But the forcer fooled the police. The Yard and the Division concerned are sore about it, though nothing was stolen. The girl was alone in the flat, and says that she disturbed a burglar, fired, but didn’t hit him. That’s the story. Why are you interested?”

“That girl brought joy to Mrs. Plender’s life,” Mannering said.

Chittering looked interested. “Fact?”

“Off the record, as we said.”

“Yes, of course. You get around, John. So you were on the spot when the pendant was returned. It happened the night of the rumoured raid on Quinns. I’m beginning to see. Well, the police didn’t find anything at Buckley Street. I was round at the Back Room myself this morning, and have had a chat with Gordon and one or two of the others. The tenant of the flat.”

“Tenant?”

“All right, all right, the man who owns the whole house,” said Chittering. “Name of Smith. Quite a personality. He doesn’t look at all like a man who runs a mail order business. It’s a crime to run one of those from the historic Adelphi, but you know what modern businessmen are like. Where was I?”

The steak arrived with much garnishing.

“You had reached the stage where he came on the scene.”

“Oh, yes. He was out until half-past one. By then, the police were in possession, and the girl had been released. There was a desk safe, empty. Smith said it had been empty for some time, and that nothing was lost. The police did a good job of searching and turned the warehouse upside down, but nothing appears to have been taken away. An elderly woman, who was out during the night, turned up this morning and was all of a flutter when she discovered what had happened. She is an aunt.”

“Mr. Smith’s aunt?”

“The lovely’s. Aunt-cum-chaperone-cum-housekeeper, I understand. I suppose you want to know the girl’s name?”

“Thanks.”

“Celia.”

“Smith?”

“Fleming. Background – mysterious.”

“You seem to have been delving to some purpose,” said Mannering.

Chittering chuckled.

“Why not? You know my Editor – get the feminine allure angle, and let the rest go hang. As a matter of fact, I spent ten minutes with her this morning. She didn’t say much, and Smith was present. When I asked an awkward question he made some remark which saved her face. The fact is, of course, they’re living together in every sense of the word. The aunt is simply a blind. I’ll tell you what, John.”

“Well, what?”

“I wouldn’t like to be the man who tried to do harm to Paul Smith. Every now and again you come across what romantics once called the supreme passion. Celia has it for Paul. She worships him.” Chittering paused for a few minutes, and then went on thoughtfully: “Amazing.”

“Why?”

“Difficult to say. Celia is a typical modern product – the factory made type of the moment that scorns all but ephemeral relationships and emotions, and yet . . .” he paused again. “The incongruity shook me. I just didn’t like it. I had the impression that he exerts what might be called an influence over her. The Svengali touch.” He toyed with his steak for a moment, and then he looked frankly into Mannering’s eyes.

“John, I’m not particularly impressionable. Life is life and I could tell you a lot about its seamy side. The fact is there’s a quality in Celia Fleming that got under my skin. Her whole personality has been withdrawn or subdued under the weight of another. It is as if Paul Smith had taken complete possession of her, of her mind and her thoughts as well as her heart and body. Tell me I’m mad.”

Mannering said slowly: “And Smith?”

“Bad,” said Chittering.

“Had you ever heard of him before?”

“No. I don’t think I want to, again. I should not like to get on his wrong side. Think he’s the Shadow?” Chittering put the question almost casually, and when Mannering didn’t answer, elaborated. “I think you’re after the Shadow and there’s a man who could be up to all the tricks.”

“I’m just probing, so far,” Mannering said. “It was Celia who took the pendant back to Plender.”

“That makes her the Shadow’s messenger.”

“It could do.”

“What’s going on in that thing you call a mind?”

“Confusion,” Mannering said, and smiled amiably.

“I’m not surprised. Does Bristow know who brought the pendant back?”

“No. Nor does Plender.”

“Just a little secret between us two,” said Chittering. “All right, John, I won’t give anything away. Are you seriously after the Shadow?”

“Not yet. I’m rather attached to him.”

“If he’s Paul Smith, get unattached.”

“That,” said Mannering cryptically, “is what I mean. What about the Shadow, by the way? You’ve probably got more information about him than I have.”

“There isn’t much we haven’t used,” said Chittering. “A courteous, gallant thief, if there be such a thing these days. He hasn’t hurt a hair of anybody’s head. Two or three times he might have got away with much more stuff than he did, if he’d biffed someone. He preferred not to biff. That may simply be build up. On the other hand, any fool knows that if he’s caught and has a record of violence, he’ll get a longer sentence than if he just lifts the stuff. It probably isn’t romantic at all, merely calculated common sense. Paul Smith would have that kind.”

“Hmm,” said Mannering.

“When this story breaks, from your end, I want it first,” said Chittering.

“It’ll be yours. But you’ll probably have to work for it.”

“How?”

“Try to find out more about the girl’s background, will you? Where she comes from, whether she has a family, all that kind of thing.”

“I can’t see why, unless you’ve taken on the championship of fallen angels.”

“Could be the outward and visible sign of a reformed character.”

Chittering almost spluttered over his coffee.

There followed two unexpectedly quiet days. The police continued to watch Mannering’s flat; Lorna remained at Salisbury and was likely to stay there for another week. Plender, it proved, had telephoned simply to inquire after Lady Fauntley, Lorna’s mother. Larraby made many underground inquiries, but discovered nothing of interest. Mannering did not hear from Chittering during those two days, and spent much of the time with the cleaned picture, which two experts said was Rubens and two said was a good imitation.

Early on the evening of the second day, Chittering telephoned.

“Hallo, John. Tired?”

“Not yet,” said Mannering.

“That’s good. Don’t ask me why, but put on your best bib and tucker and join me at Lulu’s at ten o’clock. O.K.?”

“O.K.,” said Mannering.

Chittering looked more boyish than ever in tails. He introduced his sister Jane, a buxom girl whom Mannering instantly associated with hockey sticks and basket ball, and Chloe, tall, whippet thin and unsmiling.

She looked at Mannering out of sleepy eyes.

Chittering beamed.

He ordered champagne with the air of one saluting an occasion. Alone with Mannering for a moment he drew his attention to the fact that a table for two had been reserved. “The one over there, in the corner.”

Mannering said: “Paul and Celia?”

“Of course. There is also someone else present,” said Chittering. “See the distinguished johnny with the sky-blue wife? Near the door.”

Mannering had noticed the couple.

“Just watch,” said Chittering, “and I’ll unburden myself later.”

Mannering shrugged, aware of a slow, expectant stir among the crowd. Now, Paul Smith and Celia Fleming entered – and heads turned appreciatively towards them.

Celia wore dark red and she looked superb; yet it was the man who caught the attention. He came in as if he were owed homage, surveying those in the room as a Roman Emperor might have surveyed his gladiators. His gaze, passing over Mannering, rested for a moment on Chittering, and his smile widened sardonically. Not a pretty woman was passed over by that all seeing eye; several turned their heads away abruptly.

Mannering, toying with a glass, watched Smith without appearing, to do so.

He saw that sweeping gaze suddenly arrested, the smile vanished. The man’s expression became hard, his eyes glittered; he looked as if he had seen someone whom he hated. Then he took Celia’s arm, and led her to the table in the corner. Lulu fussed after them.

The change had come when Smith had looked at the couple described by Chittering as “the distinguished johnny with the sky-blue wife.”

Mannering shifted his chair, so that he could see them better. The man, probably in the early forties, was handsome in a formal way. He had an air of wellbeing, and there was nothing in his expression to suggest that he was aware of Smith’s attention. The woman looked motherly and harassed; it was easy to tell that it was she who had been disturbed by that raking glance.

“Who?” asked Mannering.

“Major, courtesy title only, Fleming. And Mrs. Fleming. They have one daughter.”

Mannering said: “Well, well!”

“I couldn’t resist springing it on you,” Chittering said. “I knew that Smith often came here, and kept an eye on the advance bookings. Lulu’s always helpful. Then I discovered that some Flemings had also booked for tonight, so I did a bit of detective work, and discovered that they have a daughter Celia. She left home nearly a year ago. They live in Guildford – he’s semi-retired, does a bit of fruit farming and keeps livestock of one kind or another. Oh – Oxford, the old type. You can tell that at a glance.”