John Creasey - Meet The Baron

“There isn’t,” she said. “I’ve made a fool of myself, John, and that’s all there is to it.”

“And so we have to forget it?” suggested Mannering.

Lorna nodded. Mannering smiled, but there was a depth of understanding in his eyes.

“My dear,” he said, “you’re talking nonsense. There was a time when we started to talk of . . .”

“Marriage?” said Lorna as he hesitated, and the word was a whisper.

“Marriage,” he said soberly. “I’ve never mentioned it, because it was an understanding that we shouldn’t. But if we were married you would want me to help. Why don’t you now?”

She forced a smile to her lips.

“There’s no reason why I should,” she said.

“There’s every reason,” said Mannering, and his voice was very low.

Lorna shrugged her shoulders. She looked very forlorn, very tired — and very lovely.

“It’s a very old business,” she said. “I mean, it’s ageless. I’m in need of money. That’s all.”

She spoke listlessly, as though she was speaking without interest. When she stopped she continued to look past Mannering towards the wall.

He was glad that she did.

The complete astonishment which filled him as he heard the word “money” revealed itself on his face. It was gone in a flash, but it had been there, and he felt winded. Lorna, daughter of Lord Fauntley, who had boasted that he was among the ten richest men in England, wanted money.

There was something absurd about it, but Mannering conquered a temptation to laugh. He swallowed hard, and then said quietly: “How much?”

The blankness disappeared from Lorna’s eyes as he spoke. She laughed, and for the first time since she entered the flat she sounded normal, natural.

“That’s just the one question I’d expect you to ask,” she said. And the expression in her eyes made him flush. His voice was level enough, however, and held a hint of laughter.

“It’s the only pertinent one,” he said.

Lorna looked at him very straightly.

“I despise myself,” she said, very clearly and very slowly, “because it’s the one thing I shouldn’t say. But I do need money, John. A thousand pounds, if I can get it. Quickly.”

She stopped, and the silence could almost be felt, broken only by her heavy breathing.

Mannering’s mind was moving rapidly. The single fact registered that she needed the money — one thousand pounds. It wasn’t as large a sum as it sounded; there had been times when he would have laughed at it.

He was tempted to ask questions, but he knew that that was the one thing which he must not do. But the thing tormented him. Why did she need it? Why couldn’t she get it from her father if she did want it!

The answer to the second question was obvious, he told himself. Fauntley would ask why. She couldn’t tell him; so the reason for her need was . . .

Blackmail came to his mind. It came and went quickly. He preferred not to think about it, but he could see that the worry and anxiety in her face spoke of something like that. Blackmail!

He forced his thoughts down; the silence was growing too strained.

“That’s all right,” he said. “When exactly do you need it?”

His words came easily, even if the thoughts which had flashed through his mind after her words had seemed timeless. He was looking at her, and Lorna smiled.

“You’re very much true to type, John,” she said, and then stood up quickly and reached for her gloves. “But we’ve both been talking nonsense. I don’t need die money, and you’re an idiot for thinking that I do. Shall we dine to-night ?”

Mannering smiled, and his fingers closed round her wrists.

“Brave, but not so convincing,” he said very gently. “Try to be honest, my dear, with yourself — and me. It may help us both. Meanwhile . . .”

Her lips trembled, and her eyes were suspiciously bright.

“I shouldn’t have come,” she said.

“You know you should, for it made you talk. We can’t do much for each other, Lorna. You know why. I don’t. But when I can help I’m waiting and willing.”

The tears came into her eyes again. Mannering felt the pressure of her slim body against his. His arms tightened round her shoulders. He looked down on that dark, luxurious hair, and. he felt her sobbing. With his right hand he smoothed her head, and he kept very still.

The smile on his lips was beyond understanding.

CHAPTER NINETEEN

THE QUEEN ’ S WALK BURGLARY

MANNERING LIT A CIGARETTE, LEANED BACK IN HIS CHAIR, and stared at the ceiling. He was still smiling, but there was a grimness in his smile. The bundles of notes on the desk had disappeared. One small wad was left — two hundred pounds where there had been twelve hundred. It was a difficult situation to smile at, but he had to try.

Lorna had gone. She had gone very quickly, as if afraid that to linger would have been to have lost. Her attitude had puzzled and worried Mannering. She had been unsettled, uncertain, really worried, and as definitely grateful. He had not asked her a single question, and she had volunteered no information. He believed that he was glad, but inwardly he felt a very natural curiosity. Why had she needed the money?

He pushed the question to the back of his mind and moved from his chair. The pass-books which Lee’s emissary had once been so anxious to take revealed a sum of nine hundred pounds, which, with the two hundred on the desk, made a total of eleven hundred. It was enough for the moment, but it meant that he was living hand-to-mouth. He was back where he had been a few days ago.

For the hundredth time he wondered how he could dispose of the Rosa pearls, and for the hundredth time he determined to let them wait for a while; they were too warm yet. The next problem, then, was to find another likely victim, and a haul he could turn into cash quickly.

Mannering grimaced. By now he almost disliked the cold-bloodedness of his life of crime. It was as distasteful in some ways as it was exciting in others. But he would go on now until he had made enough to retire on; so much was certain. He tried to fix a figure, but he realised the uselessness of it. His expenses in a year’s time might be doubled or trebled — unless, of course, he slipped up on a job and spent a few years in gaol. The prospect, instead of making him hesitate, cheered him. There was a zest in danger that made up for everything else.

He ran through the list of his social engagements for the next two weeks. The only events of note would be the Faundey dinner — Lord Fauntley held an annual affair that outshone all rivals in the matter of celebrities and luxuriousness — and the Ramon Ball. The Fauntley affair was out of it; Mannering was still determined not to make any raid on the peer’s strong-room, for the guard would be stronger than ever now.

That left the Ramon Ball.

Carlos Ramon was a South American cattle-owner who had taken by storm that part of London which was primarily money-conscious. The wealth of the Ramons was almost legendary. Carlos himself owned the largest fleet of cattle-boats in South America, and it was said that his herds of cattle rivalled the possessions of the biggest Anglo-American companies. Mannering knew the man slightly, and neither liked nor disliked him.

Carlos Ramon — Senor Carlos, Mannering recalled with a smile — had an imposing presence, a brick-red face, handsome after a fashion, with the inevitable moustache, black, greased, and pointed at the ends, and an extremely pretty wife. His wife was Spanish, without the aloofness usually credited to her race; she was, Mannering knew, perilously near a coquette. He knew, too, that Carlotta’s beauty and Carlos’s money had captured London, and the Ramon Ball, to take place four days after the visit of Lorna Faundey to