John Creasey - Meet The Baron

“And now” — she was serious again, and practical; the moments of sentiment passed quickly with her, he knew — “I’ll have another look at your shoulder, and we’ll get some breakfast. That’s if you can eat . . .”

“It’s time you went,” said Mannering. “It would look nasty, Lorna, if anything — anyone . . .”

“It’s too early,” said Lorna decisively. “They’ll think I’m at Chelsea, I tell you.”

“Supposing they ring you, and get no answer?”

“That won’t be any change.” She was tugging at the left arm of his pyjama-jacket. “They’re used to getting no answer when I’m at the studio. Am I going to look at your shoulder, or are you going to be awkward ?”

Mannering gave in, knowing that he would have to eventually.

Lorna pronounced the wound satisfactory. There was no bleeding now, and no sign of complications. She dressed it with liberal boracic and lint, bandaged it effectively, and told him to move carefully.

“Gingerly’s the word,” Mannering chuckled, yet more pleased with her concern than he would have admitted. Then a thought flashed through his mind, and his eyes were suddenly hard.

“What happened to the bullet?” he asked.

“In the bathroom still,” said Lorna.

“We’d better get rid of it,” said Mannering. “And — have you seen the morning papers yet?”

Lorna shook her head slowly.

There were some outside,” she said. “Were they yours?”

“Yes,” he nodded. “I’ll get ‘em in a moment.”

Lorna smiled obscurely and went out. Mannering began to dress, slowly and awkwardly. Without worrying about a collar or tie, he went into the living-room, sniffed at the odour of grilled bacon, smiled at Lorna for a moment, and then went to the door, with his object half forgotten and his mind filled with the memory of her flushed face.

The papers were folded, just outside, and he took them in and opened them quickly, half-expecting what he saw.

The first words seemed to leap out of the print towards him:

ARMED BURGLAR AT MILLIONAIRE’S HOUSE

MR. CARLOS RAMON ROBBED

THE BARON AGAIN?

The newsprint, written sensationally, was no more than a re-hash of the affair at Queen’s Walk. There were points on which he could have enlightened the journalist who had starred the story, but the one thing for which he was looking was granted him.

The man with whom he had fought and the policeman on whom he had used the gas-pistol were not seriously hurt.

Mannering felt relieved and almost light-hearted. He had hardly realised the depth of his anxiety at the possibility that the guard had been badly injured. Thoughtfully he looked at his knuckles, still grazed and broken. Then, his lips curved a little, he went back to the living-room.

Lorna was serving breakfast. She had found her way about the flat easily and quickly, and his eyes were gleaming as he went to her.

“You’ve located the larder,” he said, standing in front of her. She looked very cool and very capable.

“There was an egg there which should have been thrown out three months ago,” said Lorna, “so it wasn’t difficult. Tea or coffee? I’d rather have tea.”

“So would I,” said Mannering.

He left the papers, front-pages uppermost, on the break-fast-table, and then went into his room. When he reappeared she was reading the story of the burglary. The expression on her lace seemed to defy him, although he hardly knew what to expect. The one thing he did know was that she must learn the truth now — all of it.

“Well ?” he said.

He was paler than usual as the word came out, and it took all his self-control to face her. He had never before seriously considered the possibility of Lorna knowing how he was living. The two separate people, John Mannering and the Baron, had seemed very real to him. He had appeared to think differently, according to which guise he was in. It seemed absurd now to realise that they were one and the same, and that Mannering, the John Mannering part of him, would be judged on the activities of the Baron. That moment, staring at her, he had a feeling of unreality, yet a feeling of great strain, as though everything depended on her reaction.

“Well ?” he said again.

Lorna said: “I know, my dear. I’ve known for some time.”

It couldn’t be true.

That sense of unreality was ten times stronger in Mannering at her words. Neither of them had moved, neither of them had spoken, since that single sentence had come from Lorna, spoken very quietly, and with a lurking humour in her dark eyes.

She knew.

Mannering brushed his hand through his hair, and auto-matically sought in his pockets for cigarettes. Not until the first streamer of smoke went towards the ceiling did he speak, and then his voice was harsh and unnatural.

“What are you saying?” he asked. “Trying to make it easier for me? You couldn’t have known.”

Her smile was still deep — mysterious almost.

“Well, I was fairly sure, John. And I’m not trying to make it easier for you, any more than for myself.” She broke off, turning away. “But the breakfast’s getting cold.”

“Let it,” said Mannering. He took a step towards her, and his left hand closed on her shoulder. “It’s time we stopped being mysterious. It’s time we talked — both of us.”

“Is it?” she temporised.

Mannering drew a deep breath. His grip on her shoulder tightened until it hurt, but she gave no sign.

“Lorna,” he said, and his voice quivered. “ Please!”

She seemed to draw herself up, and he knew that she was making a big effort. She forced herself to speak at last, and she was smiling a little.

“I was almost sure,” she said, “after the robbery at the strong-room. That night, after I thought it over, I told myself you fitted into the man with the mackintosh, and that if the man had been what he seemed to be he wouldn’t have worried about taking the cases with my own jewels in. Obviously the man would have taken them.”

“But why obviously?”

“Because the cases were out of their usual positions, I realised that when Dad examined all the safes.”

Mannering smiled a little.

“It was a temptation,” he said.

“Not a big one, I think. That made me nearly sure of you. And then, John, there was the Kenton brooch; you took it all almost too calmly, as though you were laughing up your sleeve about it. Oh, there were a dozen little things that suggested it. And then there was the other afternoon” — her expression changed now, and he saw that she was thinking of something unpleasant, although he had no idea what it was — “when you handed over a thousand pounds in notes. It was unusual, to say the least. There was no reason why you should have had money like that at the flat . . .”

“I might have been to the races.”

“There were none near London, and in any case you hadn’t had time to get back from them. It wasn’t three o’clock when I came.”

“But still I don’t see,” said Mannering, a little helplessly, “how that could have made you think I was — a . . .”

The word “thief was on his lips, but she broke in quickly, before he uttered it.

“You were the Baron. I know. It wasn’t any single fact that made me think so. It was the combination of circumstances. And when I read about the burglary last night” — she motioned to the paper as she went on — “I realised that I’d known it was you all along.”

“Yet you stayed here last night?”

“I think I was more — amused — than anything else,” said Lorna very softly. “It is funny, John. You’ve a reputation for immense riches. Lucky Mannering, the man who never loses . . .”