John Creasey - Meet The Baron

Mannering had to force himself to walk past the big man. He did so, and then stopped at the first opportunity to look into a shop-window, and, glancing back, saw the Superintendent making his way majestically towards the Law Courts.

A smile that was only partly humour twisted Mannering’s lips as he entered the post-office building. He was beginning to appreciate the perils of his position more. It had seemed a good prospect at first, and the difficulties had appeared to be small. But actually they were immense. It wasn’t safe for him to walk about the streets, and every time he connected with Grayson or one of the other crooks and fences he was forced to know in order to dispose of his stolen jewels, the danger would be acute.

Yet it was worth it. Mannering’s eyes sparkled as he reached the counter and asked for a letter or parcel addressed to “Mayle”.

“Initial?” asked the clerk.

Mannering hesitated, cursing himself. Initial! Why in heaven’s name had he forgotten to quote an initial to Grayson ?

He took a chance, making his mind up quickly.

“J,” he said, “but I don’t think the other man knew it.”

The clerk wasn’t interested, it seemed. He looked into the “M” pigeon-hole, pulled out the package that Mannering’s eager eyes had already seen, and slipped it across the counter. Then he turned away, without a word, before Mannering had taken the packet.

“Surly devil,” thought Mannering.

He was interested chiefly in the parcel, however. He knew that there was a possibility that Grayson had double-crossed him, and until he had actually seen the notes he would not be satisfied that he had received full payment. His fingers trembled a little as he undid the string, and he breathed freely again when he found that Grayson was straight.

But by the time Mannering had returned to Aldgate, removed his disguise, taken leave of Harry Pearce, and then made the minor disguise which changed him from Mr Mayle to John Mannering it was approaching two o’clock. He would have to hurry if he were to reach the banks that afternoon.

He was finding the service-flat in Brook Street very useful. At one time he had viewed it as an unnecessary expense, but he was glad now that he had never tried to economise. The place was central, its service enabled him to dispense with a servant, and he could act there with less risk of interference than if he were in an hotel all the time.

He had actually given up his rooms at the Elan, but the proceeds from the Overndon pearls would enable him to take them again. It was necessary still to show a good front. He had to look rich. Whatever economies he practised must not be at the cost of appearances, unless the situation was desperate.

But he was living at the rate of five thousand a year, and he would have either to cut his expenses or increase his income considerably; so much was certain. He had done well with the smaller stuff, but the robberies that he was officially helping to investigate would have to become less frequent. He needed something bigger. But there was always the difficulty of selling.

Grayson seemed reliable enough, but Mannering doubted whether the fence would be prepared to buy anything at a higher figure than fifteen hundred pounds, while he had no desire to visit the warehouse too often. The old problem of finding an outlet for his jewels was increasingly difficult. He still had the Rosas, worth ten thousand pounds if he could find the right market.

Mannering smiled as he remembered the little duel with Septimus Lee, alias Levy Schmidt, and not for the first time wondered whether the clever Jew had forgotten him, or whether he was still suspect. He was sure that Lee was keeping a very careful watch for the Rosa pearls. If they were sold through any normal channel — normal, that was, from the point of view of the fence — Lee would learn of it.

Meanwhile Mannering was sitting pretty with the Rosas in his possession, but with a bank-balance which, until this twelve hundred pounds had come along, had been perilously low; but now he had enough to satisfy him for a while.

He separated the notes into three packets of four hundred each. Then he took his paying-in books and made the necessary entries. This finished, he glanced at his watch, to find that it was twenty minutes to three. He would have to taxi from one bank to the other if he was to get to them before they closed, and he had no desire to keep the cash in the flat all night.

Then he had a shock: without the slightest warning the door of the flat opened.

Mannering saw it, and went pale. He moved his hands towards the bundles of notes, but he knew that it was useless to try to conceal them; he would be seen. For a split second that seemed like an eternity he waited.

Then he saw who it was, and he laughed. It was the only thing to do.

Lorna Fauntley stood in the doorway, smiling at him, but looking puzzled.

“Greeted with loud hurrahs — or am I ?” she mocked, as she advanced towards him.

Mannering stood up quickly, and took her hand; his eyes were dancing.

“Is that the way you enter a bachelor’s apartment?” he retorted.

“I tried the door, it opened, so I came in,” said Lorna, dropping into a chair. “If you want to keep your guilty secrets from prying eyes you should lock your rooms, John.”

“It’s not worth the risk of missing you,” Mannering riposted.

He had not seen Lorna so frequently of late. The advent of the Wagnalls and Gerry Long and the reopening of his friendship with Lady Mary and Colonel George Belton had occupied him, and Lorna had spent a great deal of time painting. Too much time, he told himself as he looked at her.

He regarded her for several minutes, thoughtfully and without speaking. She returned his gaze, but the smile on her lips was not wholly sincere. She looked tired. Her eyes lacked the lustre they had possessed; that turbulent spirit that had at first intrigued and later enamoured him was subdued. He hardly knew why, but he told himself that she was worried.

“I’m looking a wreck,” said Lorna suddenly.

The disconcerting habit she had of saying the obvious and saying it bluntly was still in her, and Mannering laughed.

“You look as though art has been too hard a master,” he said. “You’re working too much, my dear. You mustn’t.”

Lorna laughed and shook her head; there was a hardness in the sound which made Mannering wary.

“I must,” she said; “but don’t worry about me, John.”

Mannering’s lips curved as he offered her a cigarette and suggested tea. She nodded, and she watched him make it, smiling a little, but without the mischievousness that had characterised her in the early days of their friendship.

“Why must you?” he asked, as he handed her a cup and passed sugar and cream.

The sudden return to the topic seemed to take her off her balance. Her face was very sober as she stirred her tea.

“Why do most people work?” she demanded, almost defiantly.

And then, to Mannering’s complete astonishment, tears welled up in her eyes, and she covered her face in her hands.

“Oh, my dear,” said Mannering. He stepped to her side and gripped her shoulders gently. She said nothing, but after a moment she smiled. There was something pitiful, something tragic, in that smile, and the need for knowing why seemed to Mannering the most urgent thing in the world.

“If there’s anything I can do,” said Mannering very quietly, “you’ve only to say it, Lorna. No need for questions and answers. Just say the word.”

She pressed his fingers, and smiled wanly.

They had finished tea, but for some minutes neither of them had spoken. Mannering was completely at a loss. If there was one thing he had never anticipated this was it. Lorna was essentially strong-willed. He had never seen her show emotion. She had always covered it with that sometimes cynical, sometimes mocking, sometimes uncertain veneer. And now this, taking him completely by surprise.