John Creasey - Meet The Baron

“Get into that chair,” he snapped. “You’re after a job, understand? The police . . .”

Mannering nodded, and dropped into the seat that was opposite Grayson. The latter slipped into his chair, spread his hands on the desk in front of him, and smiled thinly. Mannering told himself that he had never seen a man act so swiftly and so surely. His opinion of the receiver went up by leaps and bounds.

“So you’ve been waiting for me, eh?” said Grayson, his deep voice filling the office. “Well, I don’t know if I’ve got anything in your line, mate. I . . . Come in,”

He broke off, looking towards the door. It opened, after the merest apology of a knock, and Sergeant Tanker Tring moved into the room, a gloomy smile on his face, his hands deep in his pockets.

“Well ?” Grayson looked puzzled, and Mannering clenched his teeth.

“Don’t waste my time like that,” protested Tanker, a little forlornly. “You know me, Mr Grayson. . . .”

Grayson’s eyes narrowed. And then he smiled. It was beautifully done, and Mannering felt his panic leaving him.

“Tring,” he said, “the policeman. I thought I’d seen you before,”

“I’ll have to dye my hair red,” said Tanker, “and then you’ll be sure,” He seemed completely at his ease as he sat on the corner of the desk, less than a yard from Mannering. He looked down on that big-muscled man with interest.

Mannering’s nerves were stretched to breaking-point. He knew that the slightest slip might give him away, and he was afraid of what would happen if Tanker looked at his eyes too closely. The eyes couldn’t be disguised: they were the danger-spot.

The policeman shrugged his shoulders, as though dis-appointed.

“What’s your name ?” he demanded.

Mannering knew that there was only one attitude he could adopt to be in keeping with his appearance, and never in his life had he been so grateful to Mr Karl Seltzer’s voice-training.

“What the “ell’s that got ter do with you?” he growled.

For a moment his eyes met Tanker’s, but there was no gleam of recognition in the policeman’s. Tanker grinned, and shrugged his shoulders.

“No offence,” he said, “but don’t come it, mate,” He turned to Grayson, who was leaning back in his chair and smiling. “Sorry to disturb you, Mr Grayson” — there was a wealth of sarcasm in that opening — “but I’ve got to look round,”

“Look round ?” Grayson’s eyes widened. “I don’t know . . .”

“No one ever does know what I mean,” said Tanker sadly. “Don’t come it, Mr Grayson. Try and think of a reply to the beak — he might listen.”

Grayson kept his temper admirably, or at least he gave the impression that he was doing so.

“I suppose you mean magistrate ?” he said. “If you think there’s any reason for talking like that, Tring . . .”

Tring looked at him admiringly.

“Would you believe it,” he said, “but someone’s suggested that a gentleman like you might be a fence ? Don’t ask me what that is. I know you’ve never heard it before, so I’ll tell you. It’s a receiver of stolen goods.”

For the first time Grayson seemed rattled and a little apprehensive.

“Don’t talk nonsense,” he snapped. “If you’ve anything to ask me, get it over, Tring. I haven’t time to waste,”

Tm going to have a look round,” said Tring simply.

“Not without permission,” snapped Grayson.

Tring swung his legs and grinned.

“You don’t think I’d be silly enough to come without a warrant, do you?” he asked. “Open up, Grayson — or life’s going to turn awkward for you.”

Grayson gave a helpless little laugh.

“There’s no reason why I should make it awkward if you’ve really got a search-warrant,” he said; “but it’s an infernal impudence, Tring.”

“I wouldn’t pull your leg,” said Tanker.

He took the document from his pocket, and pushed it in front of Grayson’s nose. The latter glanced down it, shrugged, and waved his hands expressively.

“All right,” he said. “Go ahead. But let me tell you, you’ll hear more of this.”

Tanker clapped his hands. The door opened quickly, and two of the men whom Mannering had seen in the yard entered. The sergeant told them to get to it, and they started quickly.

Mannering sat in his chair, bewildered, more than a little afraid. He knew that if the slightest thing happened to suggest that he was John Mannering the game would be up, and he dreaded discovery every moment.

All the same he watched the search, fascinated. The policemen inspected every corner, every possible hiding-place. They searched files that were thick with dust, old boxes, the drawers of the desk, and they even prised up two loose floor-boards. Their reward was nothing.

Tanker’s good-humour prevailed; probably he had expected to draw a blank.

“That leaves just the safe,” he said. “Got the key, Grayson ?”

“It’s not locked,” said Grayson. “I used it just before you came in.”

“Now I wonder why?” asked the policeman thoughtfully.

He slipped off the edge of the desk and went to the safe. The door opened easily, and the bundles of pound-notes — three of them — amounting to twelve hundred pounds, were revealed.

The policeman took them out and tossed them into the air as he walked back to the desk. He sat on it again. . . .

Mannering’s heart seemed to turn over. Tanker was sitting within an inch of the button which would reveal the slot-opening in the desk — and the pearls.

The Baron sat watching, on tenterhooks every minute. Each time Tanker moved a fraction of an inch he was afraid that the slot would be opened by the pressure. A little ring of sweat formed on his forehead and at the back of his neck. He was more afraid than he had ever been in his life.

But he contrived to keep his face straight and his hands still. He looked at the bundles of notes, and his expression suggested such covetousness that Tanker, who looked at him for a moment, laughed.

“Never want what isn’t yours,” he advised jocularly. Then he looked at Grayson, and his expression hardened. “That’s a lot of money to have all at once,” he said.

Grayson’s acting was superb. Not by a flicker of an eye did he reveal the anxiety that he must be feeling about the slot in the desk. There was a smile on his lips as he answered: “I could draw you a cheque for ten times that amount,” he said, “and still have a good balance. That’s wage-money, Tring.”

“You pay big wages,” said Tring doubtfully.

Grayson’s temper sparked at that.

“That’s my business,” he snapped. “Those notes are for wages, I tell you. I brought them from the bank less than twenty minutes ago. You can go and inquire if you want to.”

Tring shook his head, perfectly unperturbed by the outburst.

“No need,” he said. “I saw you go in the bank, and I saw you come out. Why not save trouble, Grayson, and tell me why you wanted this money?”

For a moment it looked as if Grayson would lose his temper completely, but he made a big effort, and controlled it.

“I’ve told you once what it’s for,” he said. “I pay my wages every month . . .”

“Dock-labourers don’t get paid every month,” said Tring.

“Dock-labourers don’t run my ships,” snapped Grayson.

The policeman looked crestfallen, and Mannering realised that the other had overlooked that possibility.

“H’m,” he muttered, “you’ve got ships in, have you?”

“Three,” said Grayson, and his expression said: “And if you don’t believe me go and find out for yourself.”

Tring nodded, sighed, and tossed the bundles of notes to one of his assistants.

Tut “cm back,” he said.