John Creasey: Meet The Baron

“Supposing the dead could speak? They can’t. She didn’t. Have I made myself clear?”

Toby Plender nodded, and slid his hands into his pockets.

“Yes,” he said. “You’re a fool — and you deserve all you get.”

“Without trimmings,” said Mannering. That’s what Jimmy said. To make a start, I’ll have one of your cigarettes.”

He smiled, and Plender followed suit, a little reluctantly. He realised that Mannering had set his course and was not prepared to alter it.

“Any time I can keep you out of the divorce courts,” said the solicitor, watching the other take his feet from the desk, “let me know. You stopped just in time with Mimi.”

“And you said you’d never heard of her,” said Mannering sorrowfully. “Shall I tell you something, Toby?”

“Providing you remember my fee for an opinion is six-and-eightpence.”

“Too heavy by far,” riposted Mannering. “Well — Mimi’s husband hadn’t got a case. Nor have any of them. I thought I’d tell you, to ease your mind. Pass it on to Jimmy, will you?”

Mannering told himself as he walked back to the Elan — even now he walked whenever possible, for he was essentially athletic, and fitness was almost an obsession with him — that he had cleared the air a great deal, and that on the whole Toby had taken it well. One thing was certain: no one in the world would know the state of his bank-balance, and it would be easy enough, if he so chose, to create the impression that he was making money. There were many ways of making it, although, in his experience, most of those methods were more likely to have the opposite effect.

There was no reason in his mind, just then, for the move. He was not even playing with the idea that was to seize him very soon with a force that he could not resist. Afterwards it seemed to him that the thing was forming even before he was conscious of it. He felt desperate — and he wanted to gamble; what the gamble was like didn’t matter, provided the stakes were high.

Well — he had five thousand pounds, and while any of it remained he did not propose to alter what Toby would have called “his ways”. He felt pleased at the step he had taken, even if he did not realise its far-reaching effect.

10.30 a.m. Sam, clerk to Billy Tricker, turf-accountant, lifted the telephone to his ear and gave his employer’s name wearily.

“Mannering,” said the man at the other end of the wire. “A hundred Blackjack, at sevens, to win . . .”

“Can’t do it. Sixes.”

“All right, sixes. Double any to come with Feodora, at fives.”

“She’s up — sixes too. The lot?”

“Yes,” said Mannering.

“O.K.,” said Sam, and wearily summarised: “One hundred on Blackjack, 2.30, Lingfield, to win; any to come Feodora, 4 o’clock. Both sixes. Thanks, Mr M.”

11.30 a.m. “Yes, Mr Mannering, I’ve several of your cards. Just a moment, Mr Mannering, I’ll make a note . . .”

Florette, florist of Bond Street, pulled an order-pad towards her. She repeated Mannering’s order in an expressionless voice, but there was a smile on her lips, for in the past twelve months she had taken similar instructions from Mannering so many times that she was beginning to see the funny side of it.

“Four white roses — four dozen, I beg your pardon — to Miss Alice Vavasour, at 7 Queen’s Gate, and two dozen red carnations to Miss Madaline Sayer, at the Lenville Theatre. Yes, Mr Mannering; thank you, Mr Mannering.”

12.30 p.m. “But I really can’t, John; I’m rehearsing this afternoon, and I’ve two shows to-morrow — idiot !”

“Did I hear the renowned Miss Vavasour say “idiot”?” asked Mannering.

“Only over the telephone. No, I can’t. I’ll see you in the dressing-room. John, be a darling. Yes, lunch and tea the day after to-morrow. And, darling, the roses were exquisite, but you shouldn’t. . . . Idiot, how could I help it? You’ll try and come round to-night?”

1.30 p.m. “They call this place,” said Mannering, “the Ritz, and you told me that you would meet me here at one o’clock. Explain, sweet Adeline, how that meant one-thirty.”

“A woman’s privilege to be late,” said Madaline Sayer, “and if you call me Adeline again I’ll scratch your face.”

“It’s no woman’s privilege,” said Mannering, “to give me indigestion. That’s our table. And Adeline’s a nicer name than Madaline; more popular too.”

Madaline Sayer laughed. She was a little woman with a pink-and-white fluffiness that passed for loveliness, and a genuine contralto that made her a popular star at the Lenville. On that day she was at peace with the world, for it was no mean achievement to take John Mannering from Mimi Rayford. Between Mimi of the Continental and Madaline of the Lenville there existed a rivalry in most things, especially the conquest of man. Conquest of John Mannering, Madaline knew, could only be temporary, but to get him direct from Mimi was just too ravishing.

“You’re a brute,” she said. “What’s this about indigestion? Ooo! John, look at the thing inside that frock . . .”

“I’ve to be at Lingfield at three-fifteen,” said Mannering, glancing idly at a debutante in a floral creation which had excited his companion’s envy and admiration, “which means that I must be away by two.”

“John! I thought we were going to have the whole afternoon. There’s that divine house-boat I’m longing to rent this summer . . .”

She pouted, while Mannering ordered lunch, and was still pouting when he laughed at her. The gleam of his teeth against his dark skin seemed to stab her. She looked round the room, and a dozen pairs of eyes turned quickly away, eyes directed at Mannering, not at her. She must play her cards carefully with him. He was as rich as Colossus, they said — or was it Croesus ? — and he was certainly the most exciting man in London. Someone had compared his smile with Rollson’s, but Rolly wasn’t in it.

She stopped pouting, and tapped his ankle gently beneath the table.

“Well, if you must I suppose you must. Couldn’t I. . .”

Her eyes sparkled, and her lips opened slightly in carefully simulated expectation. Mannering chuckled.

“My dear, you look adorable, but I’m going alone. And if we talk too much my digestion’s ruined.”

“Serve you right,” she snapped. She was angry for a moment, and her prettiness was spoiled. “You’ll never get to Lingfield in time, anyhow.”

“I’m flying from Croydon.”

“Trust you.”

“I couldn’t have lunched with you,” said Mannering, “if I’d planned to go by road, so . . .”

“John, you darling! Oo, and I forgot. The carnations were divine. How did you know that I liked them?”

“You must have let it slip out,” said Mannering dryly.

2.05p.m. Mannering hurried towards the car waiting for him outside the Ritz, but stopped as Toby Plender’s voice hailed him.

You again,” he smiled. “Don’t tell me you’ve been lunching with the flighty.”

“A client,” said Plender. “I didn’t think it possible, J.M., to go lower than Mimi Rayford, but you win.”

“What’s this ? Another way of calling me a fool ?”

“There aren’t any other ways left,” said Plender amiably. “Where are you going?”

“Lingfield, via Croydon. Coming?”

“I earn my living.”

“I get mine honestly,” chuckled Mannering.

He travelled to Croydon by road, and in his haste to catch the plane that was going to the racecourse broke many speed-regulations, and spared little time for thinking. But in the air, with the country-side opening out beneath him like a large-scale relief map, and the sun burning into the cabin, he thought a great deal. Toby was still worrying the bone, even though the solicitor had no idea how close his friend was to the border-line. Even now Mannering was not conscious of the idea that was to master him so soon, but he did recognise that the need for finding a way of making money was increasingly urgent; he had not the slightest desire to go under. Of course, it was possible to make money on horses, but. . .