John Creasey - Meet The Baron

Bristow fingered his moustache awkwardly. He read the appeal, and nodded slowly, while Lorna took another cup and saucer from a small cupboard, asked him how much sugar and whether any milk. He answered automatically. The seconds seemed to drag like hours.

Lorna filled three cups, and handed one to him, as if nothing was out of the ordinary.

Mannering marvelled again at her self-possession, but he was still puzzled. She knew about the bullet, and she must realise the situation, but she was carrying herself superbly. Bristow couldn’t know for certain whether she had overheard any of the conversation.

The detective reached for the cup, and then realised that he couldn’t take it while the bullet was in his hand. He didn’t know that Lorna was gambling on the belief that he would not give up the evidence he held, and he drew back quickly. But he was a fraction of a second too late. Lorna uttered a little cry of alarm. . . .

Mannering saw that she actually pushed the cup and saucer against the detective’s hand; it was the crucial moment, and he almost cried out in suspense. The cup tilted and went over. The tea, scalding hot, poured over Lorna’s fingers and over Bristow’s.

The detective gasped, and dropped the bullet as the tea stung his flesh. It wasn’t until a moment later that he realised that he had been tricked.

Lorna bent down like a flash, and Mannering realised what she was doing. He seemed to be laughing to himself, irrationally, at the cleverness of the ruse. And she was still playing a part, still fighting.

“I’m awfully sorry,” she said. “I really should have been more careful. No — I’ll pick it up. . . .”

But Bristow was alert now.

“Get up!” he snapped, and his voice was harder than Mannering had ever heard it before.

Lorna stood up, holding the cup and saucer, neither of which had broken; her expression was icy as she eyed the detective. Many a man would have been deceived by her words and her tone.

“I don’t quite understand,” she said.

Bristow grunted, and his eyes were like agate.

“I understand you now,” he said. “This isn’t going to be quite the picnic you seem to think, young lady. Where’s that bullet?”

“Bullet?” Lorna’s tone, the question in her voice, the expression on her face, and the apparent mystification in her eyes were perfect. She stared at Bristow, waiting for him to answer.

The detective swore beneath his breath, nonplussed for a moment.

Mannering was feeling an absurd relief. The reaction tended to make him feel light-headed, but he realised his weakness, and knew that he must do something to support Lorna without spoiling her ruse. He looked towards the floor at the pool of tea, and then into Bristow’s eyes.

“Did you mention a bullet?” he asked, and his voice sounded unnatural, even to himself. “I . . .”

Bristow snapped his fingers with a gesture of more than annoyance. He was bristling with anger, but beneath the anger was common sense and a knowledge of the strength of the powers behind him. He had been outwitted, but only temporarily. The bullet was still in the room, almost certainly in Lorna Fauntley’s slim hand.

“Don’t try to be funny,” he snapped, and his eyes flamed as he looked at Mannering. “There are some things which are out of bounds, Mannering, and that’s one of them.”

Mannering flushed, but laughed.

“You’re beside yourself,” he said easily. “You’ve come here excited, and you don’t know what you’re saying — or doing.”

“Excited!” Bristow blared the word. “Do you mean to tell me that there wasn’t a bullet?”

“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” said Mannering. The gleam in his eyes belied the words, but his lips were steady and serious. “Do you, Lorna ?”

The girl shook her head; her eyes were inscrutable.

“He’s being abominably rude,” she said. “If he’s a specimen of the Yard policemen I’m inclined to agree with Lady Kenton.”

Mannering kept a straight face with difficulty. He knew, Bristow knew, and Lorna knew that unless that bullet were produced Bristow had no kind of a charge against him. The bullet was in Lorna’s hand. Bristow daren’t try to use force, and he would have to wait until a woman came from the Yard. That would give them half an hour or more to get rid of the bullet effectively. God, what a situation!

Bristow’s eyes hardened. He realised that he was being baited in the hope that he would do something foolish. But he was too seasoned an officer to take chances. His voice was harsh.

“So that’s how you’d like to make it, is it?” he snapped. “Well, you can’t get away with it, Mannering. You’re the Baron. That bullet will prove it. Now — where’s your telephone ?”

Mannering indicated a stand in the corner of the room. There was no object in trying to evade Bristow on that point, but the detective needn’t reach the instrument.

A moment later Mannering felt a quick revulsion of feeling, and again the situation swung round.

Bristow dipped his hand into his pocket, and pulled out a gun. There was a grim smile on his face, tinged with triumph.

“Yes, I know it’s against regulations,” he said, “but it pays to take a chance at times. I took this in case I bumped into the Baron — into you — last night. It’ll serve its purpose now. Get into the corner — both of you !”

Mannering hesitated. Lorna’s eyes widened, and fear tugged at her heart. This was a development neither of them had anticipated.

“I shouldn’t take any chances,” grunted Bristow. He was hard and implacable, and he seemed to have changed into granite. “If this goes off it’ll be because you were resisting me in the execution of my duty. I’ve nothing to worry about, and you stand to risk another bullet.”

There was a tense silence as he stopped. Then Mannering uttered a short, high-pitched laugh.

“Let’s humour him,” he said to Lorna, and he hardly knew how to keep his voice level, for his heart was thumping fast.

Bristow’s eyes glinted. He watched the couple move towards the corner, and the glint changed from one of annoyance to satisfaction at Mannering’s words. Keeping his gun trained on his prisoners, he reached for the telephone. It was one of the new type, and he had no difficulty in talking and keeping his captives under his eyes. They were caught. Mannering might have moved and taken a chance, but he would not risk Lorna.

“Scotland Yard,” Bristow grunted. There was a pause. Then: “Sergeant Tring? Oh, Tring, come along to Mannering’s flat, in Brook Street, with two plain-clothes men and a woman. Yes, a woman. That’s all. Don’t lose any time.”

He replaced the receiver with a flourish.

That just about finished you,” he said evenly, and he smiled, more like the old Bill Bristow well known and liked in the East End. “I’ll admit you gave me a shock, Mannering, and I’ll admit it was luck that I found you, but — we always get our man.”

Mannering shrugged his shoulders. He contrived to smile, but he felt no humour. The end was coming, quickly, undramatically. His recent burglaries and his successes seemed to lose a great deal of their glitter.

He seemed to picture the crowded court, the judge and jury, the droning voice of the prosecutor. It would be child’s play for the Crown. There was hardly a possible line of defence. Even Toby Plender wouldn’t be able to do anything, clever though he was.

Mannering felt physically sick.

Bristow seemed to realise it, and naturally felt a malicious pleasure. It rankled deeply that he had been made such a complete fool, and even now he was wondering what Lynch’s comment would be.