Versus the baron, p.1
Versus the Baron, page 1
Copyright & Information
Versus the Baron
First published in 1940
© John Creasey Literary Management Ltd.; House of Stratus 1940-2014
All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted, in any form, or by any means (electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise), without the prior permission of the publisher. Any person who does any unauthorised act in relation to this publication may be liable to criminal prosecution and civil claims for damages.
The right of John Creasey to be identified as the author of this work has been asserted.
This edition published in 2014 by House of Stratus, an imprint of
Stratus Books Ltd., Lisandra House, Fore Street, Looe,
Cornwall, PL13 1AD, UK.
Typeset by House of Stratus.
A catalogue record for this book is available from the British Library and the Library of Congress.
EAN ISBN Edition
0755136772 9780755136773 Print
0755140109 9780755140107 Kindle
0755138457 9780755138456 Epub
0755155459 9780755155453 Epdf
This is a fictional work and all characters are drawn from the author’s imagination.
Any resemblance or similarities to persons either living or dead are entirely coincidental.
www.houseofstratus.com
About the Author
John Creasey – Master Storyteller - was born in Surrey, England in 1908 into a poor family in which there were nine children, John Creasey grew up to be a true master story teller and international sensation. His more than 600 crime, mystery and thriller titles have now sold 80 million copies in 25 languages. These include many popular series such as Gideon of Scotland Yard, The Toff, Dr Palfrey and The Baron.
Creasey wrote under many pseudonyms, explaining that booksellers had complained he totally dominated the ‘C’ section in stores. They included:
Gordon Ashe, M E Cooke, Norman Deane, Robert Caine Frazer, Patrick Gill, Michael Halliday, Charles Hogarth, Brian Hope, Colin Hughes, Kyle Hunt, Abel Mann, Peter Manton, J J Marric, Richard Martin, Rodney Mattheson, Anthony Morton and Jeremy York.
Never one to sit still, Creasey had a strong social conscience, and stood for Parliament several times, along with founding the One Party Alliance which promoted the idea of government by a coalition of the best minds from across the political spectrum.
He also founded the British Crime Writers’ Association, which to this day celebrates outstanding crime writing. The Mystery Writers of America bestowed upon him the Edgar Award for best novel and then in 1969 the ultimate Grand Master Award. John Creasey’s stories are as compelling today as ever.
Chapter One
An Appointment Of Importance
‘This Mannering,’ said Raoul Vincenne gently, ‘he is an honest man, that I know. And wealthy, Annette. He can and will pay what is requested for so great a prize. You need have no more worries, ma cherie, it will not be long now before we have all the money we shall need for the great fight. Yes, the great fight—’
A pair of mild blue eyes, sparkling with feeling, regarded the petite and charming face of the girl who sat at ease on a settee in a suite at the Regal Hotel, Piccadilly. Her expression now was stormy, as if she viewed her father with impatient tolerance.
‘How often our troubles have ended,’ she said sharply. ‘Always you find some way, and then—poof!—it goes. There was the money Richard had – where is that?’
‘He will get it back, Annette, when Mannering has paid me, have no fear of that. And afterwards a bigger reward for him, for you, for me, Raoul Vincenne!’
The Frenchman flung his hands outwards, and there was fire in his eyes, the fire of the fanatic.
‘A bigger reward,’ Annette said sharply. ‘But at what risk? All the time you are frightened, I am frightened—’
‘No risk is too great, for they are mine, those lovely jewels, mine to sell to whom I wish. And’—his voice dropped to a whisper—‘no one knows what they are, Annette. This Mannering, great collector though he is, he does not know. I have been careful, Annette.’
‘But you are still afraid.’ The girl rose quickly, turning towards the door leading to her bedroom. ‘I have to meet Richard at one o’clock, Papa. You see Mannering when?’
‘At two o’clock, Annette, and in a little hour I shall be back.’ His voice rose. ‘If I am not here by three o’clock, then go to M’sieu Mannering and – but I shall be here! I shall start to fight, I shall prove who I am, they must acknowledge Raoul Vincenne, the one remaining descendant of—’
When Annette returned, dressed for the street, he was crouching in a deep chair, his head in his hands. She pressed her lips tightly against the back of his neck.
‘The day will come, Papa, be sure of that.’
Downstairs she waited in the foyer, oblivious to the others nearby, until the swing doors opened, and a young man entered, fair-haired and tall. He reached out both hands towards her.
‘Darling, it’s good to see you!’
Anne laughed lightly, as he led her towards the doors.
‘Papa he remains upstairs, but he will have good news quite soon. I am sure of it.’
Richard Clayton looked down at her sharply.
‘Has he taken the stones?’
‘Oh, yes.’ Annette shrugged her shoulders.
‘And he’s prepared to sell right away?’
‘It would seem so, Richard. This Mr Mannering is wealthy and a big collector of jewels. He—’
‘I know all about John Mannering,’ said Clayton confidently. ‘Provided he doesn’t learn that the things were stolen—’
‘Stolen!’ She flashed the word, luckily out of ear-shot of passers-by, for they were in Piccadilly and entering Green Park. ‘How could he steal what is his? Have we to go through all that again?’
‘It’s possible that Mannering might not look on the matter in quite that light,’ said Clayton drily. He tightened his grip on her arm. ‘Forget it for an hour or two, Annette, heaven knows we don’t get much time together.’
‘You ask me to forget that,’ exclaimed Annette. ‘Tiens, what is it you have for a heart?’ she added slowly. ‘I am to meet Papa again at three o’clock. And then – forty thousand pounds.’ Her breath quickened. ‘You will be repaid, and afterwards it will be proved that my father is of the proud families of France.’
‘I hope to God it goes through without trouble,’ said Clayton. ‘Anyhow, we’ll soon know.’
At ten minutes to two he watched, with a deeper interest than he allowed to show, Vincenne step from the doors of the Regal into a waiting taxi, the older man gripping a brief-case with fierce tenacity.
At five minutes to two Vincenne stepped from the taxi, paid the driver, and looked across Shaftesbury Avenue to Mendor’s, a private club where he hoped to meet Mannering and sell to him the diamonds stowed away in his brief-case.
Vincenne glanced at his wrist-watch and saw that it was two minutes to the hour. As the traffic slowed down he stepped into the roadway.
He had no chance to save himself.
A low-slung black car leapt forward, and before he had taken two steps it crashed into him. Vincenne’s body was flung five yards from the spot, and the brief-case flew in another direction. The black car went on, swerved round a bus and joined a stream of traffic.
Almost at the moment of the crash a man left the pavement and hurried towards the brief-case. If any folk nearby saw him pick it up they were too startled to make any comment or try to stop him. He slipped it beneath his coat and walked swiftly to a side-street, where a parked car was waiting for him.
The driver raised his brows interrogatively. The man nodded, stepped into the tonneau, and was driven quietly away.
M’sieu Bon of the Sûreté Generale and Superintendent Lynch of Scotland Yard had two things in common. The first and obvious one was that they were policemen; the second, as obvious, was that they were fat.
Lynch had the massive roundity of an athlete who, approaching middle-age, had given up all training, while Bon, on the other hand, had the pale city face and round, tightly-waisted figure of one who abhors all sport.
On that warm afternoon in the middle of June his face shone and his lips moved with a speed that made his English difficult to follow. He lifted a plump white hand as if to stop Lynch from interrupting, an action which caused the lips of Inspector William Bristow to twitch in an amused smile.
‘So!’ exclaimed M’sieu Bon with fine disgust. ‘The Baron, you say, is finished. For how long have you tried to find him – three, four, five years! Nom d’un nom, once a thief, always a thief, is it not so? I, Bon, say yes!’
Lynch, a placid man, broke in smoothly. ‘You may be right, Bon, but—’
‘So you will admit that?’ Bon leaned forward with passion. ‘Why do you not continue to look? I ask you – why?’
‘We—’ began Bristow, but he was not allowed to finish.
Bon swept him aside.
‘Here you have the Baron. The most notorious thief in England, the most clever – the man who for four-five years laughs at you! You allow your papers to make him the hero; you have not the jewels he has stolen. How much I know not, but two-three-four hundred thousands, in pounds, is that not so? Then he stops. You say he will not work again. Parbleu, when he has spent all the money, then he starts. Always they do that. Five years ago he begins, two-three times he have a rest, only to start again. Mark th
Lynch’s eyes twinkled. Bristow shifted in his chair.
‘The thing is,’ said Lynch easily, ‘you don’t know the Baron as well as we do, Bon. He’s not the usual run—’
‘Nom d’un nom, you also think him clever?’
‘Not a doubt about that,’ said Lynch quietly.
‘It would appear,’ grunted Bon, ‘that you think there is not. Also that you like him!’
‘He has points,’ admitted Lynch, flicking a speck of ash off his coat lapel. ‘Don’t bother your head about the Baron, Bon, we can look after him – eh, Bristow?’
‘Just now, anyhow,’ said Bristow.
Bon shot a startled glance from one to the other.
‘Nom d’un nom, you talk as if you know the man!’
Lynch chuckled.
‘We do.’
‘But—but who is he?’ Bon’s ebullience had dropped away from him as he stared blankly, waiting for enlightenment, ‘He is a man in high places? You have the orders—’
‘Oh, no, no, no! We’ve got some damn fool regulations, but we haven’t come to that yet.’
‘You—you know him!’ said Bon in amazement, ‘and—and you don’t arrest him?’
‘We haven’t had a chance of getting an open-and-shut case,’ said Bristow, ‘and anything less is useless for the Baron. Don’t look like that, man, we—’
‘What do I look like?’ demanded Bon sharply. ‘Amazement, bewilderment, that can be allowed. Nom d’un nom, never shall I understand you English! All they say about you, and more, is right. We do not deal with our criminals that way in France. I—’
A tap on the door interrupted him.
Lynch called ‘come in,’ and a sergeant entered.
‘Mr John Mannering has called, sir. Can you see him?’
Bristow was taken suddenly with a fit of coughing, and Lynch’s lips curved quickly at the corners. The sergeant waited impassively, while Bon looked on, his eyes flashing from face to face.
‘Er—’ said Lynch. ‘He asked for me?’
‘I understand so, sir, or Mr Bristow.’
‘Hmm,’ said Lynch. ‘All right, Mason, bring him along. I’ll see him here. An old friend,’ he added as the sergeant went out, ‘of yours, Bon. Remember the time you had a Baron burglary in Paris, and a man named Mannering was robbed of a few hundred pounds?’
‘So – that Mannering?’ exclaimed Bon. ‘I remember well, there was a murder. You ask him,’ he went on, wagging a finger, ‘if he wishes the Baron to be forgotten. I—Lynch! Why do you laugh?’
Lynch recovered himself, while Bristow’s face was turned carefully away from the Frenchman.
‘Sorry, old man, I was thinking it would be funny to see Mannering and the Baron face to face.’
‘So,’ said Bon, ‘you admit I am right! I—ah! M’sieu Mannering. This is a great pleasure!’ He bounded towards the door as the caller was ushered in, taking Mannering’s right hand between both his own. ‘A great pleasure!’ he repeated with conviction. ‘One day, I show you a copse. You remember?’
‘Copse?’ asked Mannering. ‘I—oh, corpse! Yes – Inspector Bon, isn’t it?’ He smiled, and for a moment was revealed as a remarkably good-looking man. ‘Do I remember! I’ve—’
Bon did not allow him to continue, but talked without ceasing for several minutes. He, Bon, was outraged because the English police had not yet caught the Baron. He felt sure that Mannering would agree with him with equal outrage. The English, they … but let him not be misunderstood. For the English he had the profoundest respect. They could always take the hint. He, Bon, was French but could also take that! Messieurs Lynch and Bristow had been of the greatest kindness, and he must leave them to proceed with the matter M’sieu Mannering had come to discuss … but M’sieu Mannering would remember to protest, ha! ha! …
He shook hands warmly. As the door closed behind him, Bristow chuckled aloud, while Lynch, smiling, brushed ash from his coat.
John Mannering regarded them sardonically, his eyes alone showing that he shared their amusement. He took the chair Bon had vacated, adjusted the fall of his trousers, and offered cigarettes from a gold case. Lynch took one, as Mannering said, ‘May I share the joke, Superintendent?’
Lynch struck a match, his eyes steady above the flame.
‘I rather thought you were doing so,’ he said drily. ‘What brings you here?’
Chapter Two
And Presents A Problem
All that Bon, Lynch and Bristow had said of the Baron had been true. That he and Mannering were one and the same, had been within an ace of being proved more than once.
Nevertheless, he had not worked for the sake of gain for over two years: which did not mean that if work should be forced on him he refused to gain by it. There had been three affairs where his powers as a cracksman extraordinary – and the police of two continents admitted those powers – had enabled him to help the police, friends of his own or Lorna Fauntley’s, the girl he hoped one day to marry.
Lynch, now, pulled his chair up and nodded.
‘All right, Mannering, I’m at your service.’
Bristow pulled a pad towards him, and unostentatiously took a pencil from his pocket.
‘Bristow might like to make some notes,’ said Mannering gently. ‘All right, Bill, you’ll probably need them, it’s going to be involved at times. We’ll start with the fact that I collect jewels.’
‘You’re a collector, yes – go on.’
‘Well, I’ve had some diamonds offered to me, indirectly, and in a way that might be called dubious,’ said Mannering. He had dropped his attitude of half-cynical amusement, and if Lynch and Bristow felt surprise at the opening, they concealed it well. ‘The stones,’ he went on, ‘are fairly big, and perfectly matched. They are cut as stars, five-point stars, and are rose-tinted. I’d value them at fifteen thousand apiece – and there are five of them.’
‘Just a minute,’ said Lynch. ‘You mean they’re single stones, not small ones set into stars?’
‘I mean just that,’ answered Mannering. ‘Each is a diamond on its own, each must have been cut down severely to make the shape, and that suggests that they’re part of a collection. There are several five-star pieces in existence, I know, but none, I believe, that are missing.’
‘Have you tried to find out?’
‘As a matter of fact, I have. I’ve even cabled New York, and Paris. A blank, both times.’
‘You could have contacted us a bit earlier,’ Lynch said drily. ‘I hope you’ve not made the mistake of leaving it too late.’
‘I don’t make that kind of mistake with Scotland Yard!’ Mannering said, smiling. ‘You can take it as read that they’re not posted as missing.’
‘Hmm. What makes you think it might interest us?’
‘Method of offering,’ said Mannering, and he hesitated, choosing his words carefully. ‘I was at Mendor’s four days ago, and I saw them there. A complete stranger suggested that these diamonds were rare enough to interest me no matter what awkward questions might at some time have to be asked, and—’
He broke off, while Lynch’s eyes narrowed and Bristow glanced up from his notebook. Both men knew that they had not heard the full story: it was one which only a very few collectors would have brought to the Yard by itself. Lynch could have named a dozen men in public life of irreproachable reputation, and – in all matters but their collection – meticulous honesty, who possessed precious stones of dubious history. It presented the Yard with many problems: a slight adjustment in the cutting of a diamond – or emerald, ruby or sapphire – could make certain identification impossible, and explained the difficulty in tracing well-known pieces that had been stolen. Such pieces, Lynch knew, were in the Baron’s collection – and that of at least one Cabinet Minister.
Even those who demanded a higher standard for their collections would hesitate to report an offer made tentatively, sometimes because of the difficulty of identification, more often because they were reluctant to endanger a source of supply.
‘Well?’ said Lynch.
Mannering tapped the desk lightly with his fingers. ‘That in itself was unusual but not unprecedented. I had ten or fifteen minutes to examine the stones, and I was interested.’
