John Creasey: Meet The Baron

Mannering sniffed the brandy, gazing thoughtfully at his friend as he cupped the glass.

“Good stuff,” he admitted. “But who told you of the fifteen thousand, Jimmy ?”

Randall sipped and inhaled the brandy, and then scowled at Mannering’s question — but he discussed the brandy first.

“Not so good as the Denie Mourice ‘75, and I’ve bought two cases, drat it. Toby Plender told me.”

“H’m,” murmured Mannering, holding his glass away from him and flicking it with his forefinger. “So you held a post-mortem before reading the Riot Act, did you?”

“Stop using that glass like a tuning-fork,” said Randall irritably. “Yes, we held a post-mortem, if you want it like that. You’re like a kid acting the goat . . .”

“Well said!” Mannering laughed. “You’ll go a long way before you crack a better one than that.”

Randall didn’t smile.

“That’s right, be bright. I’m telling you . . .”

“For the sixth time!”

“That you’re making a fool of yourself, and that all of Somerset and half of London is sharing the joke. Damn it, John — even the Continental’s taking you up. I was there last night . . .”

“Low music hall,” said Mannering sadly, “reflecting low taste. How did they work me in?”

“Mimi Rayford came on,” said Randall, with a sudden grin, “and the dummy in the stalls bellowed, “Mannering’s latest”. I . . .”

Mannering laughed, until the brandy spilt over the edge of his glass. Randall’s grin widened reluctantly.

“It was good,” he admitted.

“It was wrong,” said Mannering, recovering himself. “Mimi and I quarrelled two nights ago, and she had a smack at me. Never expect a fair dividend from a woman, Jimmy, however much you invest in her.”

Randall’s scowl came back.

“I haven’t seen the paper to-day,” he said, “but the gossip-columns will have it all right,” He looked hard at his friend, at those hazel eyes which could be humorous, lazy, quizzical, and mischievous in turn, but were now sardonic. “Why not drop it, John ? You had a bad break, I know, but not bad enough to — to squander every darned penny you’ve got on a crowd of gold-diggers.”

“That phrase went out with the flood,” said Mannering. “So because I told you and Toby Plender I was worth twenty thousand some time ago, you both think I’m approaching my limit, and you exhume me and read the Riot Act.”

“It is a tiling that worries us both a darned sight more than you seem to understand,” said Randall, with real seriousness. Damn it, neither Toby nor I want to see you go under.”

Mannering’s eyes twinkled, and he nodded.

“I know,” he said, “but what can you do with a man who’s tried the cure and found it doesn’t take ? You’ll only worry yourselves grey . . .”

“About you ?” asked Randall coldly.

“Oh, no. About the failure of your efforts to put me on the right path. And that reminds me, Jimmy, you’ve forgotten the racing and the boxing . . .”

“Forgotten nothing,” snapped Randall. “The only thing you haven’t sunk your money on during this last year is beer . . .”

“Make it alcohol in general,” murmured Mannering.

“And when you’re down to your last pound or so,” said Randall, “you’ll start that. For the last time — will you drop it?”

There was silence for a moment. Mannering’s eyes held his friend’s. He had known Randall for twenty years, through the hot enthusiasm of school-days, the blast years of Cambridge, the recklessness that had followed, and the calmer days of the past five years. He understood Randall; he understood the other member of the trio of friends, Toby Plender, who was also in London; but he did not understand himself, as he answered slowly: “No, Jimmy. Sorry. I’ve set my course, and I’ll stick to it. If I’m blown off it” — he shrugged his shoulders and grinned, that old, cheerful grin — “I’ll find another.”

“You’re a fool,” said Randall.

“We’ll celebrate a mutual understanding in a spot more brandy,” said Mannering.

Although he left Randall on that inconsequential note, Mannering was by no means pleased to learn that his friends were taking so close an interest in him. He felt that he wanted to do exactly as he liked, and the thought of interference annoyed him. On the other hand, he had the good sense to realise that neither Randall nor Plender would act — or talk — without the best of motives, and he did not propose to allow the affair to affect a friendship that had weathered many storms.

If his feeling of irritation left him as he walked towards the City — and Plender’s office — he did not intend to let Plender get away with the thing without some protest. True, it could hardly be called a breach of confidence that the solicitor had told Randall how low Mannering’s finances were, for the three of them had known for a long time most that there was to know about one another, while Plender could say to Randall things that he could say to no other man on earth.

He reached the solicitor’s office, and was taken to the junior partner’s room immediately. As the door closed, and before he sat down, he smiled sardonically at his friend.

“I’d like to know,” he said, with a show of annoyance not altogether discounted by the smile in his eyes, “whether you call yourself a solicitor or a talking parrot ? I suppose you didn’t tell Mimi Rayford that I was down to my last five thousand, did you ?”

“Never heard of Mimi Rayford,” said Toby Plender equably.

“Nor Jimmy Randall ?”

“That,” said Toby, pressing the tips of his fingers together, “was between friends.” He grinned, and pushed a box of cigarettes across the desk. “Well, what’s your trouble?”

“I’m going to change my solicitor,” said Mannering, put ting his hat and stick on the desk and clearing a corner for his feet. “Mind if I sit down ?”

Plender surveyed the size-ten shoes resting on his desk, shifted his gaze to Mannering’s quizzing eyes, and grinned.

“So you’re rattled enough to think of changing your solicitor?”

“Rattled, no. Careful, yes,” said Mannering. “And when I say change I mean cancel out entirely. Solicitors seem to me too solicitous.”

“H’m,” said Plender, “h’m. So you’re taking the last five thousand, are you ?”

“Yes, and putting it in a bank. It’s nice to feel you have my welfare at heart, Toby, but it’s a strain being the victim of good intentions.”

“I thought it would do it,” said Plender, half to himself. He was a small man, faultlessly dressed, with a hooked nose, a Punch of a chin, and a pair of disconcertingly direct grey eyes. At thirty-five Toby Plender had a reputation for being the smartest criminal lawyer in London, and he coupled this with the fact that he was nearly bald. His humour was dry when it was not caustic, and he shared with Jimmy Randall a regard for John Mannering and a growing concern for their friend’s recent activities.

“You thought it would do what?” asked Mannering.

“Make you think,” said Plender. “It’s time you did, John; time you thought hard, and stopped chucking away your cash.”

“D’you know,” said Mannering, “you and Jimmy should sing duets together — you both harp so on ancient ditties. Toby

Plender’s eyes were hard; he was taking this thing seriously, and Mannering’s flippancy annoyed him.

“Well?”

“Don’t try to reform me. I’ve had the itch for gambling since I was so high, and it’s been part of my make-up all the time, even though I kept it down for a while. So . . .”

“Supposing she’d married you ?” asked Plender.