John Creasey - Meet The Baron

He looked both ways quickly.

To the left he could see two men hurrying towards him, and his lips tightened. To the right there was no one in the small alleyway; that avenue of escape was open.

Mannering swung round, with the men from the left swinging after him. The pain in his shoulder was worse now, and his knuckles were sore, but there was desperation in his mind, and one thought only — he must get away, he must.

He almost sobbed with relief as he reached the end of the alleyway and found himself in a wide thoroughfare. A taxi was crawling along it near him; he jumped forward, heedless of the man’s startled expression, knowing that he cut a strange figure, and that the men behind him were in sight, shouting at the tops of their voices. But their words were indistinguishable, and Mannering still had a chance.

The taxi stopped.

Mannering knew only one way of making sure that there was no hesitation, no loss of time.

“For heaven’s sake,” he gasped, “get me to Scotland Yard!”

The magic name of Police Headquarters proved effective. As Mannering swung into the back of the cab the driver let in his clutch, and the taxi swung along the road.

Mannering, breathing hard, looked through the rear-window. He could just see the two men — ordinary passers-by, he assumed, racing towards the cab, but their effort was useless, and a smile curved his lips as he realised it.

Then, as his heart steadied, he looked at his watch. The exhilaration of the chase and the escape dropped away, and a new and equally urgent problem presented itself.

It was ten to twelve. In ten minutes the masks would be off at the Ramon Ball, and he had to be there in time, whatever happened.

He straightened his hair, stuffed his mask into his pocket, dabbed his lacerated knuckles with his handkerchief, and then looked out of the window. The cab would be passing the New Arts Hall in a few moments; he saw that there was just one chance of getting there without alarming the driver.

Mannering chuckled grimly.

Then, forcing himself to use his right arm, despite the pain of the wound, he opened the off-side door of the cab and climbed on to the running-board. It was touch-and-go now. If the driver happened to look round he would raise an alarm, but they were in a side-street, and no one was passing. Mannering took his gas-pistol from his pocket and tapped the driver’s shoulder gently. The man swung round, gaping, and a cry came from his lips, but Mannering touched the trigger before it was repeated. The gas hissed out, a familiar, friendly sound to Mannering, and the driver slumped forward across the wheel. The taxi, out of control, swerved across the road.

Mannering clung on to the cab with his left hand and reached for the brake with his right. He pulled it up with a jolt almost in the centre of the road, blessing his stars that no other car was in sight.

He left it quickly. Its lights were on, and there was no danger of an accident, he knew. Breathing hard, he hurried through a side-street towards a side-entrance of the New Arts Hall. As he entered the building he held his breath, half-running as he went, but luck was with him. The only attendant who saw him was smoking a surreptitious cigarette, and, fearful of discovery, was more concerned with dousing it than with making inquiries.

Mannering’s heart was in his mouth as he hurried towards the cloakroom. He dared not throw off his coat, for the blood from the wound in his shoulder would show up plainly against the harlequin costume he had on underneath, but by keeping his head bent he evaded recognition. With a sigh of relief he entered his private cubicle.

Then he looked at his watch again and groaned. Three minutes to twelve. Three minutes!

It was almost torture to don the Charles the Second costume, but it had to be done; he daren’t take a chance, and he must have an absolute alibi in case of inquiries.

He swung his white silk scarf round his arm and shoulder, covering the wound, and managed to get the coat over it. Then he donned his wig, and a dab of rouge over his cheeks finished the job. He glanced at himself in the mirror for a moment, and the smile of his lips widened. A sense of jubilation returned; no one would dream of what had happened in the last forty minutes.

The first stroke of twelve was echoing through the building from that gigantic ceiling-clock as Mannering entered the ballroom and merged in with the throng of revellers. As luck would have it he saw Lorna a few yards away, and made towards her.

Jimmy Randall’s cheerful voice came to his ears before he reached the woman.

“My dress is more accurate than yours,” said that worthy cheerfully. “Warm enough, J. M. ?”

“My dress keeps me cool,” grinned Mannering.

He reached Lorna’s side as the girl took off her mask. All around people were laughing, partners for the evening were taking stock of their companions. Carlos and Carlotta Ramon were standing on a dais beneath the clock, looking thoroughly pleased with themselves. Mannering wondered what Ramon would look like when he heard the news of the burglary, but that didn’t matter. The fact that he was sale was the thing.

“So you’ve left that girl in red?” said Lorna laughingly.

Mannering chuckled to himself. He needed no further proof of the wisdom of wearing the same costume as Randall and Colonel Belton. Lorna would be ready to swear, if necessary, that she had seen him in the hall all the evening, and he would want no better witness.

“Of course,” he said lightly.

And then the lights of that great hall seemed to dim, and there was a mist in front of Mannering’s eyes. He heard Lorna’s sharp exclamation of alarm, and felt her arm round him, firm and friendly.

“John — John — what is it?”

The room seemed to be swaying. Mannering held on to his companion for dear life, knowing that he would fall if he didn’t. He gritted his teeth. Every ounce of self-control that he had went into one great effort to regain his balance before others besides Lorna noticed that anything was wrong. He managed to smile, and found his voice.

“I’m — all — right,” he muttered. “A bit hot. Let’s get to the side.”

Lorna nodded, and gave him her arm. His shoulder was numb now, and he hardly realised the pain in it. But he reached a bar, just off the main hall, and took a whisky-and-soda gratefully. It burned through him with new life, and he forced a smile that did little to ease Lorna’s concern.

“I can’t see what you look like,” she said. “That rouge hides everything. You’re sure you’re all right?”

Mannering laughed now, feeling that he could carry on.

“A hundred per cent,” he assured her.

And then he saw the brilliant crimson sash that swung across Lorna’s shoulders. He saw the damp patch on it, and knew that it was blood — his blood. He stared, unable to keep his eyes away.

Lorna saw the red patch on his costume at the same time.

She went very pale, but said nothing as she bent towards him, so that the waiter could not see the shoulder and its ominous patch of blood. Mannering warmed towards her as she smiled.

“We’ll get out as soon as we can,” she said. “Mother’s leaving just after twelve, and so are some of the others. It’ll look natural enough. Get back and change, my dear.”

Mannering smiled at her in a gratitude he could not have expressed in words. She had asked no questions, revealed no excitement, but only anxiety; he knew that without her he must have been lost.

But this was something he must explain.

“My dear man,” said Lorna, a quarter of an hour later, “I’m coming back to your flat with you to patch you up.”

“Not at this hour,” muttered Mannering. He was standing by a taxi, one of a hundred drawn up outside the New Arts Hall. The first streams of home-going revellers were crowding the pavements, mostly older folk, but sprinkled here and there with an occasional younger couple. Mannering, in evening-dress, looked no different from the others, but his arm was throbbing badly now, and he was anxious to get away.

“You haven’t half the sense you get credit for,” said Lorna tersely. She beckoned a taxi and gave his Brook Street address. He smiled as he entered the cab, knowing that he could not dissuade her; he wasn’t sure whether he wanted to.

Less than twenty minutes after he was standing in his bathroom stripped to the waist, and Lorna was examining the wound with a keen, almost professional eye. She was cool, and completely unflurried.

“You’re lucky,” she said. “Or I think you are. It’s not touched the bone.”

“It feels as though it’s broken a dozen,” said Mannering ruefully. “It’ll heal all right.”

“You’ll need a doctor, said Lorna quickly.

Mannering turned towards her. There was a smile on his lips and an expression which she could not understand as he answered.

“That’s ruled right out,” he said.

She stared at him for a moment uncertainly. He could see that she was burning to ask questions, but for the moment he could not bring himself to talk of the night’s adventure. He was racking his brains to find a genuine explanation — or at least one to sound genuine. It seemed impossible. She was very shrewd, he knew; and he judged that she would be able to tell whether he was lying. So tor the time being he said nothing.

“So you don’t want to call a doctor,” she said, half to herself, and her eyes were dark, mysterious, probing. “Well — I can just see the bullet beneath the skin.”

Mannering said nothing.

“And it I try to get it out,” said Lorna, “it’s going to be painful for you and a nasty job for me.”

Mannering hesitated.

“I’ll manage it myself,” he said finally, “really . . .”

Lorna smiled; the shadows went from her eyes as she rested her hand on his arm.

“You’re a complete idiot,” she said. “Will you grit your teeth? I’ll try it.”

Mannering nodded. For a moment his fingers closed round her arm in an answering gesture of trust. She spoke quietly, as though afraid of sentiment.

“It’s lucky I’m not likely to faint at the sight of blood,” she said. “Turn towards the light, my dear . . .”

The next three minutes seemed like days, but Mannering knew that they might have been a great deal worse. Lorna, tight-lipped, probed with a knife at the dark patch she believed to be the bullet. The bullet it was, and very close to the skin. She levered it out, as she would have done a splinter, and then put it on a shelf.

“You’d better get rid of that.”

Mannering nodded, and sat down wearily on the side of the bath. He felt weak and very tired. Still very practical, Lorna bandaged the wound, after bathing it, and he was amazed at the comfort now.

“Get to bed,” she said quietly. “I’ll stay until morning.”

Mannering shook his head quickly as she spoke.

“You can’t,” he said. “It’s asking for trouble.”

“My folk will think I’m at Chelsea,” said Lorna, with a little smile. And then she caught his hands in hers. “John — don’t argue, please. It’s my turn now to help.”

Very slowly the smile returned to Mannering’s lips.

CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE

A KNOCK ON THE DOOR

AT HALF-PAST EIGHT NEXT MORNING LORNA FAUNTLEY stirred in her chair and opened her eyes.

She had wrapped a blanket round her on the previous night, after making sure that Mannering was sleeping soundly, and had dozed fitfully during the small hours. Towards morning she had dropped into a deeper sleep, and she was surprised when she saw the time. The momentary bewilderment at her strange surroundings disappeared. She pushed the blanket away, switched on the electric kettle, which she had filled overnight, and hurried into the bathroom. A quick wash refreshed her, and she was smiling as she set the cups on a tray, collected the milk from outside the front door of the flat, and then tiptoed into Mannering’s room.

He was still sleeping soundly, and she could tell from the colour of his face that he was not suffering unduly from the wound. She knew that he had a constitution strong enough to stand the strain, and the anxiety she had felt concerning his well-being disappeared.

She smiled very softly as she looked at him.

His face was dark against the pillow, and his features seemed more clearly marked than usual. There was something in him which seemed almost part of her.

She smiled a little bitterly at the thought, and her eyes clouded, but they cleared a moment later as Mannering stirred suddenly and opened his eyes. He blinked up, and there was something absurdly funny about his expression as he saw her. She laughed unrestrainedly at his bewilderment.

Memory of the previous night’s affair jumped back into Mannering’s mind. He moved up, then flinched as pain streaked through his shoulder.

“Steady,” said Lorna quickly.

He grinned ruefully, and stretched his left hand towards his waistcoat, where he could find cigarettes.

“It’s a rotten bad habit, smoking first-thing in the morning,” said Lorna.

“There are lots of bad habits,” said Mannering, taking a cigarette and lighting it, one-handed. He looked uncertain of himself. “So you are still here,” he said at last.

Lorna laughed.

“I’m afraid so,” she said. “If you knew what you looked like, my dear, you’d have a shock. But sit there for a while until I make tea.”

When she re-entered the room five minutes later Mannering had pulled a comb through his hair, and was comparatively wide-awake. His uncertainty had disappeared, and he looked completely in control of himself.

He drank the tea gratefully, before saying much. Then: “I suppose,” he said, looking at her quizzically, that I ought to start some explanation ?”

Lorna shook her head. Her lips tightened, and she smiled with her eyes.

“No,” she said. “You asked no questions the other day. I’m asking none now. I just want to say, John . . .”

She paused. Mannering’s eyes were very soft.

“Be careful, my dear,” she added, and her voice trembled.

Mannering managed to laugh a little.

“I’ll try,” he said.

“And now” — she was serious again, and practical; the moments of sentiment passed quickly with her, he knew — “I’ll have another look at your shoulder, and we’ll get some breakfast. That’s if you can eat . . .”

“It’s time you went,” said Mannering. “It would look nasty, Lorna, if anything — anyone . . .”

“It’s too early,” said Lorna decisively. “They’ll think I’m at Chelsea, I tell you.”

“Supposing they ring you, and get no answer?”

“That won’t be any change.” She was tugging at the left arm of his pyjama-jacket. “They’re used to getting no answer when I’m at the studio. Am I going to look at your shoulder, or are you going to be awkward ?”

Mannering gave in, knowing that he would have to eventually.

Lorna pronounced the wound satisfactory. There was no bleeding now, and no sign of complications. She dressed it with liberal boracic and lint, bandaged it effectively, and told him to move carefully.