John Creasey - Meet The Baron

It took him five minutes to locate Septimus Lee’s bedroom, a large, airy chamber on the second — and top — floor. The door was unlocked — the easiest job he had had so far.

For the first time Mannering used his mask, a dark-blue cloth that covered his mouth, chin, and nose, and he pulled on thin rubber gloves to make sure that he left no fingerprints. A silent, shadowy figure, he crept into the room and reached the bed. The Jew was sleeping on his back, with one crooked arm over the coverlet, the other hand at the back of his neck.

Mannering used his gas-pistol quickly, regulating the gas this time; the only effect it appeared to have was to make Lee breathe more deeply, and the Jew’s body seemed to shrink back into the bed.

“Peautiful!” murmured Mannering, emphasising the “p”. His heart was beating fast now, and his eyes were glistening; he was more than half-way to success.

Rapidly he ran through the man’s clothes, searching for keys. If he could find them it would save him a great deal of time — and time had never been so precious.

Nothing that might have opened the safe was there, however. He rubbed his chin disappointedly as he looked round the room, but his eyes glinted when he saw a small deed-box resting on a chair near the bed.

Using a pick-lock, he opened the lock of the box without any trouble, and found what he was expecting to find — a bunch of intricately cut keys. He smiled, jubilant again.

Now for the safe.

There was a peculiar feeling of depression in Mannering’s breast a few seconds later. He had told himself that he was thoroughly prepared for the sterner tasks o his newly chosen profession, but the affairs of that night proved how badly he had misjudged the difficulties. To get into a house was one thing. To get into it without the vaguest notion of where to find the safe was another. In future, he told himself, he must prepare the ground more thoroughly beforehand. For the time being — where was the safe ?

A wall-safe, almost certainly, and in the bedroom. Lee was not a man to keep valuables in another part of the house at night.

Mannering tried every picture, to find the blank wall behind them. The feeling of depression grew heavier — until he looked intently at the bed, the last possible place. And then that curve at the corners of his lips came, and his eyes gleamed.

Septimus Lee’s bed was a double one, with a large head-panel of walnut, very close to the wall. Mannering went to it, bent over the unconscious figure of the Jew, and examined the centre of the panel. It was very intricately carved — too intricately carved for its purpose. Mannering ran his fingers — gloved fingers — over the smooth surface. Luck was with him. There came the slightest of clicks! And the centre of the panel began to slide . . .

And then the shock came!

The room, the house, was filled with noise, the strident clatter of a low-pitched electric alarm. The very air seemed to shiver with the sound. For a split second Mannering stood still, his muscles tensed, his lips compressed. Then, above the alarm, came the sudden banging of a door!

Mannering looked at the window of the bedroom and resisted the biggest temptation of his life. A few seconds, a climb down the walls of the house, would mean freedom, escape. But escape, he told himself, without the Rosa pearls. . . .

The temptation, the thought, and the first ringing of the alarm took no longer than a few seconds. It seemed almost in one movement that Mannering stiffened and then leapt towards the unlocked door. The key was on the inside, thank God! Mannering turned it as footsteps echoed along the passage outside. Before the cracksman had reached the head of the bed again there was a thud on the door, and a low-pitched voice came through to the room.

“Mr Lee — you all right, Mr Lee?”

Mannering ignored it. He tried key after key in the lock of the safe, quickly but with steady fingers; the filth one opened it. He was still laced with the combination beyond the first door, and as the thudding on the door grew louder he told himself that he would have to give up. Desperately now he twisted the knob, right, left, right again, hearing the numbers clicking, working with raging impatience, not knowing whether he was close to his goal or not. Suddenly there was a loud click, and with new hope he pulled at the door.

It opened!

But Mannering’s satisfaction was tinged with anxiety; even though success was near he was not out of the wood yet.

The man outside had stopped calling, but another, more ominous sound came. A second key was being poked through the keyhole. As Mannering turned round he saw the first key moving slowly, drooping towards the floor.

Another mistake! The realisation flashed through his mind as he crossed the room again. He should have put something heavy against the door when he had locked it; he should have been prepared for this development. Now it would be touch-and-go whether he succeeded or not.

He pressed his left side against the door and stretched out for a stiff-backed chair with his right arm. As the door thudded against him he pulled the chair into position, jabbing its top rail beneath the knob of the door. In the respite that followed he pulled a heavy arm-chair from a corner of the room and upturned it, leaving its weight to support the first chair.

“Three minutes, with luck,” he muttered, sotto voce. There was a queer relief in talking to himself, and he kept murmuring under his breath as he worked.

He reached the open safe again and searched for the contents. There were several bundles of papers, one or two small trinkets, and a leather case. The case was locked, but by now Mannering had finished with finesse. He took a screwdriver from his pocket and forced the hinges from the leather, snapping them off.

The lustre of pearls shone for a moment in the dim light of the room. . . .

The excitement was almost too much for him, but he resisted the temptation to stare at his prize. The Rosa pearls were his, but the danger was still about him. He stuffed the case in his pocket, while his eyes were glistening and his lips parted. Quickly he moved towards the window. It was shut and locked, but he opened it without trouble, and looked below. To the garden it was a fair drop, but a drain-pipe and a sill at the window beneath promised foothold. Mannering climbed out quickly.

Even to the last his luck — and his caution — held.

As he went down, easily enough, he kept his ears wide-open for the slightest sound. For a few moments there was silence; then something moved beneath him. He turned his head in time to see the burly figure of a man waiting in the shadow of the trees that had befriended him, Mannering, a short while before.

There was trouble both ways now, and Mannering had to fight hard to keep his self-control. One thing was certain: he had to get down.

As he went, cautiously, his coat caught round the drainpipe, and the temporary delay gave him an idea. At the next staple he stopped again, tugging at his coat. He was within a few feet of the ground now, and he judged that the man in the shadows would come forward, believing the climber to be in his power.

Mannering judged rightly. The man ran towards the figure on the wall, and Mannering waited, timing his backward jump to a nicety. With every muscle in his body taut, he went down!

The man did not see the manoeuvre until it was too late to avoid the crushing weight. Mannering dropped plumb on to the other’s head and shoulders! The man crumpled up, and Mannering went flying, turning his shoulder to the ground as he fell. He took the fall well, and scrambled breathlessly to his feet. The other was scrabbling the gravel path with his feet and moaning.

“Knocked out,” muttered Mannering. He told himself, forcing down a fear that there was anything more the matter with the victim of his attack than temporary unconsciousness, that it was the last time he would break into a place without knowing just how many occupants it was likely to have. But it was over; now for the car.

He ran lightly towards the spot where he had left the hired Vauxhall, keeping his eyes open all the time in ease there was a third member of Septimus Lee’s house-guard. He saw no one.

The engine of the Vauxhall purred sweetly as he pressed the self-starter, and the wheels turned.

Sweat oozed from every pore in his body. His breath was coming, short and harsh, between his parted lips. His head was buzzing, and his limbs were trembling. Mannering felt that he had gone through the worst five minutes of intense action that a man could possibly endure; yet he had succeeded.

And then, as he turned the Vauxhall off the common road towards the main road and looked into the driving-mirror, he groaned.

You fool !” he muttered. “You fool!”

But he was laughing a moment later. Right to the last he had made mistakes — even as he had turned into the high road he had been wearing his mask! He slipped it off, and took a cigarette from the dashboard-pocket with lingers that trembled.

And then he settled down to the task of getting home.

CHAPTER NINE

SEPTIMUS LEE AND ANOTHER

AT FTVE MINUTES TO TEN ON THE FOLLOWING MORNING THE same suave-voiced clerk received the same immaculate, smiling John Mannering, and ushered him into the office of Mr Septimus Lee. The Jew’s blue-veined hands were pressed together, with the skinny fingers intertwining.

The lids of his large, slant-set eyes were a little lower, if anything, than on the previous day, but otherwise he looked the same, was dressed the same, and smiled as invitingly.

“Clever,” murmured Mannering to himself, “and cool. I’d give half the Rosa pearls, nevertheless, to know what’s going on in his mind.”

He spoke amiably, however.

“Well, Mr Lee. Need we use a theoretical basis for discussion to-day, or can we . . .”

Lee waved his hands.

“We understand each other, understand each other perfectly, Mr Mannering. But for one unfortunate mishap our deal could be completed to-day . . .”

Mannering’s brow went up.

“Mishap?” he questioned.

“Regrettably, yes.” Septimus Lee lifted his hands, chin-high, and shrugged his shoulders, but there was no quiver in his voice. “I had — er — visitors last night, Mr Mannering.”

Lee paused. Mannering’s eyes widened, his lace-muscles relaxed. The suggestion of incredulity he created was convincing even from Septimus Lee’s point of view.

“Visitors?” His voice was hard. You mean someone made a better offer than mine?”

“No offer at all,” said Lee. “I was robbed.”

“Robbed?” Mannering uttered the single word with emphatic scepticism.

“Yes — last night of all nights,” said the Jew softly.

A frown crossed Mannering’s lace. His chin was a shade more aggressive than it had been a minute before, and his voice was harder.

“If this is what you call bargaining finesse, Mr Lee, I’m sorry you take me for that sort of mug. I’m disappointed in you.”

Lee smiled, and once more Mannering was forced to admire him.

“A very natural supposition,” said the Jew, “but an erroneous one, Mr Mannering. However, as I cannot show you the Rosa pearls, there is little point in continuing the interview.”

“Look here” — Mannering realised that he could not stress his disbelief too much — “I’m willing to go a little higher with my offer. Shall we say thirteen thousand pounds, and make the deal ?”

“I can quite understand your point of view,” said Septimus Lee, “and I sympathise with you. You are a collector, and you reckoned to have a rare — a unique — piece; but you have been balked. My apologies could not be more sincere, Mr Mannering, but I was robbed.”

Mannering stared at him for a moment, and then rubbed his chin ruefully.

“Damn it,” he said, “I believe it’s the truth after all! But, hang it, Mr Lee, only you and I and one other in England knew of the existence of the necklace. It seems absurd . . .”

“My own mpression exactly,” said Lee. His tone was silky, and there was an undercurrent of something in his voice which Mannering did not understand. Yet robbed I was. Of course others may have heard the same rumour as you. And now, if you will excuse me . . .”

Mannering shrugged, smiled, picked up his hat and gloves, and was ushered out of the office by the clerk, who had arrived in answer to Lee’s ring. That was over.

“Now what,” asked Mannering of himself as he walked into the Strand beneath the white glare of the sun does Mr Lee know — or guess ? I’m not happy in my mind about that man. And there was something different about him to-day. He was keeping himself in check, of course, but there was something else.”

Two things happened in the next two minutes that told Mannering what he wanted to know. They were both innocent things, and directly connected with each other, but connected in no way with the Baron or Septimus Lee. But . . .

“Middie speshais!” bellowed a newspaper-seller in his ear.

“Midday specials,” came another voice, a few moments later.

The difference in the two voices was ludicrous. Mannering looked at both men. The one was old, sharp-featured, and dressed in dirty rags; the other was younger dressed poorly but neatly, and with a rather intelligent lace; disillusioned perhaps, but intelligent.

“As different to look at,” he thought, “as they sounded different. Sounded different . . .”

He bought a Standard from the younger man and walked on, smiling. Had it been later in the day the news-seller might have wondered how much Mannering had won, for he looked pleased with himself and with life. He was pleased. The voice of Septimus Lee. that day, had been different from the voice on the previous day. There had been little or no accent, while before there had been a definite Jewish inflection, more difficulty with the w’s and s’s.

“So he changes his voice,” thought Mannering, “to suit himself. Strange.”

Half an hour later he thought it stranger still.

He was looking at the Rosa pearls, wondering how to dispose of them and whether it was the genuine string. He was faced immediately with two of the major problems of his new life — how to sell what he had stolen, and how to make sure that he had genuine stones, not artificial ones.

There was a connection between the two problems, he knew. Once he found a reliable buyer — or fence — he would also find a reliable judge — a man who would not purchase dud stuff as the genuine article. It was not altogether satisfactory, but for the time being it would serve.

He remembered Flick Leverson, who had purchased one or two small trinkets from him before his. Flick’s, unfortunate apprehension by Bill Bristow.

“I can take the small stuff,” Flick had told him, “but if you ever get any big stuff don’t try me; try Levy Schmidt.”

Mannering had smiled at the time, for Levy had recommended Flick. Moreover, he had been warned by several gentlemen of the fraternity to avoid Levy Schmidt like the plague. Levy was reputed to be a police-informer. Mannering had said as much.