John Creasey - Meet The Baron

Mannering felt physically sick.

Bristow seemed to realise it, and naturally felt a malicious pleasure. It rankled deeply that he had been made such a complete fool, and even now he was wondering what Lynch’s comment would be.

“It’ll be in your favour,” he said, “that you didn’t try force, Mannering. And it’s luck for you that you don’t carry firearms.”

Mannering shrugged his shoulders again, and Lorna’s eyes were very wide. She was gripping Mannering’s sound arm, and he could feel her fingers trembling. Neither of them spoke.

“I suppose you wouldn’t like to tell me where I’ll find the stuff?” suggested Bristow, fingering his moustache. “It would save a lot of time.”

Mannering made a big effort.

“What stuff?” he asked. His voice was remarkably steady, and he surprised even himself.

There was a gleam of admiration in Bristow’s eyes.

“You’re game,” he said grudgingly.

Lorna broke out as the words left the Inspector’s lips. Her poise had gone now, and her breast was heaving.

“John — don’t let it happen! Take a chance. You can get away; you must, you must! You mustn’t let them get you. John . . .”

Mannering gripped her arm soothingly; her outburst gave him new strength.

“Steady,” he said. “There’s no sense in losing your head, my dear. Bristow’s got an idea that I’m the Baron, and he won’t be satisfied until it’s been proved to the contrary. So . . .”

Lorna swallowed hard. She looked up at the man at her side, and saw his face set in a strange smile. He would fight to the last, of course.

There was a fleeting expression of doubt in Bristow’s eyes, but it was gone in a flash. He laughed rather harshly, and moved his gun.

“That’ll cut no ice when we’ve found the stuff you took from Ramon’s,” he said. “And the bullet.”

“No?” Mannering was very cool. His mind was working at top speed, on one thing and one thing only. The bullet.

How could he get round that substantial piece of evidence? Was there a way out, other than losing the bullet? Must this be the end ?

“No,” snapped Bristow.

Mannering bent his head suddenly, until his lips were very close to Lorna’s ear. Bristow’s gun moved a fraction of an inch threateningly.

“No tricks,” he warned.

“Try and slip it in my pocket,” whispered Mannering. Don’t answer.” He straightened up, and grinned at Bristow. “Couldn’t we sit down now ?” he demanded.

The detective was bristling with suspicion.

“I’ve warned you,” he said, “and if you try any tricks, Mannering, you’ll make acquaintance with another bullet. I’ve had more than enough of the Baron — a lot more.”

“I find him a little too universal myself,” smiled Mannering.

As he spoke he moved, and Lorna slipped the bullet from her hand into his pocket. Or almost into it. At the critical moment he moved again, and the little lump of lead dropped to the floor. The plop came as Lorna gasped out in consternation. Bristow’s eyes glittered, and he made his first mistake.

He darted towards the bullet. Mannering saw him, loosed his left arm, and swung it at the detective with every ounce of strength in his body. Bristow realised the ruse a fraction of a second too late. He saw the clenched fist loom in front of his eyes, and then there came the sickening thud of fist on bone and flesh. Bristow went sprawling, his eyes rolling as he fell.

Lorna seemed petrified; the thing had happened so swiftly. Mannering swung towards the telephone while Bristow was still dropping to the floor. He had dialled his number before Bristow’s head dropped back, but he need not have worried, for his man was unconscious.

Mannering was almost frenzied with excitement, and his eyes were gleaming. The wait for the response to his call seemed never-ending. But a voice came at last, a rather sleepy and irritable voice.

“Hallo, there! Yes, yes?”

The Colonel, thought Mannering. And: “Let me speak to Gerry,” he said, keeping his voice steady with a great effort. “Yes, Gerry Long; quickly, please.”

“A minute,” grunted Colonel Belton at the other end of the wire.

The minute seemed age-long.

Bristow was still stretched out, unconscious. Lorna seemed to break through the stupefaction which had gripped her when she had seen the policeman go down, and her eyes brightened.

“What shall we do with it?” she demanded.

“Lose it, with luck,” snapped Mannering, “If this man keeps me waiting much longer I’ll . . .”

“But why can’t I take it?” Lorna almost cried the words. “I could get to the river, drop it down a drain . . .”

“And have the police pestering you, questioning you and your lather, your mother and . . .”

“But it doesn’t matter. You’ll be all right.”

Mannering’s eyes were very warm.

“You’re very dear,” he said. “But I think we can get away with it. . . . Ah! Gerry . . .” He swung round to the telephone, and Gerry Long, cheerful again now, answered quickly.

“H’m-h’m. Want me, Mannering?”

“Come to my flat,” snapped Mannering, “the back way. You came once before — remember?”

“Yes.” Long seemed to realise the urgency in the other’s tone. There was crispness in his voice at the other end of the wire.

“Stand in the courtyard,” snapped Mannering, “and catch the thing I’m going to throw out of the window. Then lose it. A drain, or the river, somewhere. And for God’s sake be here inside five minutes — less if you can make it.”

“Right,” said Long, and Mannering heard the click of the receiver.

He swung round towards the girl, and his eyes were dancing with hope. But there was anxiety in his expression, for time was precious.

“I think we’ll do it,” he muttered. “I wish to heaven you weren’t here, my dear, but it’ll be best for you to stop now.”

Lorna nodded. She did not know why, but she accepted Mannering’s assurance without question. But there was one thing worrying her, and she pointed towards Bristow, who was lying at full length, still motionless.

“What about — him?”

Mannering could see the rise and fall of the detective’s chest, and he believed that the other would regain consciousness in a few minutes, none the worse for his knock-out, but very bad-tempered and with a stronger dislike of the Baron than ever.

“He’ll be all right,” he grunted. “The thing is — will Gerry get here first, or Tanker — the policeman? Oh, my dear . . .”

He broke off, white to the lips. There was a thud of heavy feet on the landing outside the front-door of the flat. Mannering’s face paled, but his voice was steady.

He held out the bullet to the girl.

“I’ll go,” he said. “If it’s the police get into the bedroom, wait for Gerry, and throw that down when he comes. I’ll keep them out — somehow.”

But he doubted whether he could. He knew that Sergeant Jacob (Tanker) Tring was a shrewd officer, and would have no hesitation in breaking into every room in the flat when he saw his superior lying unconscious; and if Tring got into the room in time to see Gerry Long outside the game was up.

As he turned the handle of the door he was wishing that he had let Lorna take the bullet out of the flat. She would have had time to get away; the proof would have been missing. But before he had opened the door he knew that he had done the only thing. It lessened the chance of dragging Lorna’s name through the mud, and if it was humanly possible that had to be avoided.

He pulled the door open, his face set to greet Tring.

And then he stood very still for a moment, staring at a large, solemn-faced man who was resting a heavy attaché-case on the floor, and who was proffering packets of note-paper and envelopes.

“Would you care to buy . . .” The man’s opening words came smoothly.

“I’ll make you a gift,” said Mannering, recovering from the surprise and acting quickly.

The man’s face brightened at the sight of a free half-crown, but darkened as the door was shut in his face abruptly. He pocketed the coin, and walked on to the next flat, shrugging his shoulders and lugging his case, knowing nothing of the alarm he had caused.

Mannering hurried towards Lorna, who was standing by the door. She had known from his words that it had been a false alarm. Quickly he explained, and went to the window anxiously. The alleyway along which Gerry Long would have to come was empty.

And then Mannering’s face hardened; this time there was no mistake.

He could just see into Brook Street, for his flat was near a corner, and he saw the police car, which was travelling at a generous forty miles an hour along the road. He recognised the dour face of Tanker Tring next to the driver, and he knew that the game was almost over.

Lorna saw his change of expression, and guessed why. Her eyes clouded, and for the life of her she could not have spoken.

“They’ll be here in a moment,” Mannering muttered. “I’ll give them a minute — no more. Why the hell doesn’t Long come?”

The question was useless. They waited and watched tensely, with their ears pricked to catch the slightest sound from the front of the flat. It was a matter of seconds now. Once the police arrived the chance was gone.

And then Mannering saw the thing he wanted most in the world just then. Gerry Long was hurrying along the alleyway and staring up at the window. The seconds passed like hours, and Mannering felt like a man possessed when the knock thundered on the front-door with the American barely within throwing-distance.

“Answer it,” Mannering said to Lorna very grimly.

Lorna moved away, fear clutching at her, a mad unreasoning fear that it was too late to save Mannering now. But Mannering, in that last tense moment, hardly noticed her. He saw that Long was hurrying, and he could see the anxiety on the American’s face. Long was in the small courtyard leading from the alley now. Mannering moved to the window, waved, and pressed a finger to his lips. He was trembling like a leaf as tossed the bullet down. Was it in time? . . .

Long waited below with his hands poised. The bullet dropped into them safely, and Mannering felt a tremendous relief. He was through!

And then Lorna’s voice came, raised in an agony of fear.

“John, be careful, be careful!”

Mannering swung round as the door was pushed open violently. He saw Bristow, conscious but wild-eyed, outlined in the doorway, and the policeman lunged towards him, cursing. Mannering stood back rigidly, watchfully, his face blank. Bristow saw the open window and guessed the rest. He leaped for the opening and stared out. In the distance he could see Gerry Long’s head and shoulders, but the American was too far away now to be recognised. But Bristow wasn’t finished. . . .

“I’ll get you,” he snapped. “Don’t make any mistake about that, Mannering.”

As he spoke he leaped towards the window.

Mannering knew what the other was going to do. The one chance that remained for Bristow to get the bullet was to catch the man who was running away. The one way to start was through the window; seconds counted, as much for the one man as the other.

Bristow hesitated for the fraction of a second to reconnoitre the position. There was no fire-escape near him, but immediately beneath the window was a Y-shaped drainpipe that offered a slender hold. Had Bristow not been groggy and aware only of the desperate need for catching the man in the alley he might have thought twice about trying to get down that way.

He hardly hesitated, however, and flung one leg over the sill. He rested his loot on the drain-pipe, and then lowered himself. Mannering realised the danger, and cried out in genuine alarm.

“Steady, Bristow — steady!”

And then Bristow slipped. Mannering heard a crack! and he knew in a flash that the drain-pipe had broken.

For a sickening moment Mannering thought that the other was over. It was a long drop to the courtyard below, a drop on to solid concrete, and there could be only one end if Bristow went down. Tragedy loomed in front of him. . . .

Then he saw the tips of the detective’s fingers on the window-ledge. He was at the window in two strides, and for a moment he forgot the wound in his shoulder; he had to. He leaned out and gripped the other’s left wrist as Bristow’s precarious hold was loosened. Every thought but that o. saving the detective was out of his mind now.

The full weight of Bristow’s body was thrown on Mannering’s injured shoulder. The pain stabbed through him, agonising, excruciating. For a moment he was afraid that he could not hold on. Sweat covered his forehead, and his teeth gritted against one another. But he hung on, with Bristow dangling below; and slowly he manoeuvred his left hand to the support of his right.

Grunting with pain, conscious only of the one task, he kept his hold. The pain seemed to be running through his whole body now, and he was wet with sweat. Bristow seemed to grow heavier as the seconds dragged by, but he came no higher. Then his wrist slipped an inch. . . .

Mannering groaned.

He didn’t see the door open, or Tanker Tring, with his face set in alarm, in the doorway. Tring gulped — and then he moved rapidly towards the window, taking the situation in at a glance. He leaned out, fastening his hands round Bristow’s wrists below Mannering’s. Mannering eased his hold, and stumbled back into the room, while Tanker raised his stentorian voice for the other men who had come with him. They were already in the room, but Mannering, leaning against the wall, didn’t see them as they hurried across; nor did he see the three of them haul Bristow up, slowly but easily.

Mannering felt like death.

His face was chalk-white. His eyes were closed, his breath was coming unsteadily. Lorna Fauntley, terrified in case the effort to get rid of the bullet had failed, hardly daring to look into the room, forced herself to enter, and saw Mannering.

Concern drove the fear from her eyes. She went forward quickly, and Mannering heard her voice, as if from a long way off.

“It’s all right, John — all right . . .”

Then Mannering fainted.

Almost at the same moment the policemen by the window dragged Bristow into the room. Tanker Tring was wondering what in heaven’s name had happened, but he concentrated on taking charge of the situation as it was. He found a decanter of whisky and poured a generous portion between Bristow’s lips. He grunted as his superior spluttered and coughed, and absent-mindedly tasted the spirits. He’d learn everything soon enough.

CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE

BRISTOW DISLIKES HIS JOB

DETECTIVE-INSPECTOR WILLIAM BRISTOW LOOKED MOROSELY at his sergeant, but said nothing. Tring was eaten up with curiosity, but he knew when to ask questions and when to keep silent. He stared idly at the half-empty decanter.

Bristow muttered something inaudible under his breath.

The two detectives who had helped in his rescue had gone back to the Yard, with the woman-detective. Bristow knew that it was useless to look for the bullet now. He didn’t feel that he wanted to look for the bullet. He remembered the terrible moment when he had dangled over the window-ledge, and he remembered the relief that had surged through him when Mannering had gripped him. And then, when he had recovered well enough to take charge, he had seen Mannering stretched out on the floor, and he had seen the pool of blood from the wound which had reopened in the Baron’s shoulder.