Held At Bay (17 page)

Chapter Twenty-Three

The Reckoning

The hustle and bustle on board the
Orientes
at Cherbourg as the short-distance passengers embarked and the last of the luggage and mails were unloaded, was pleasant to the Baron's eyes. It was a perfect morning, warmer than in England, and with the sun shining from a cloudless sky. The
Orientes
was an English ship, with the indefinable suggestion of home that was always aboard British liners.

Mannering had passed through without the slightest trouble, and in his cabin – Leverson had booked it – were all the tools he might need. But he knew that apart from the danger from Granette it would be difficult to get away if there was open trouble.

A brief visit to the purser's office, ostensibly to find if any friends were on board, satisfied him that Granette had embarked under an assumed name.

The trip from Cherbourg to Southampton should take no more than four hours; in that four hours the Flame Ruby must change hands, which meant he was very tight for time. Mannering studied the people on the first-class deck carefully. If Granette was there he was better disguised than Mannering had expected. He could stand failure, but a fruitless journey altogether would be more than he could take.

But Granette
might
be travelling cabin or tourist class.

Mannering's knowledge of the man's fastidiousness did not make it seem likely, but Granette would be aware of the possibility of a watch for him.

And then Mannering stood very still, as an idea flashed through his mind.

Had Granette left the ship at Cherbourg?

Mannering, or Mr. Miller, was breathing very hard as he walked round the promenade again. A party of young Americans were having a final fling on the games deck above, and Mannering walked up the companionway, fighting against a conviction that the luck had turned against him.

He was at the top of the companionway when he saw Granette.

He knew the man in a flash, although Granette's disguise was really good; but Mannering saw him smile; that crooked, malicious smile would have given Granette away anywhere. He was staring towards the disappearing coast of France, and in his hand was a letter picked up at Cherbourg.

Probably from Mr. Hacking, thought the Baron.

All the Baron's confidence was back, and he walked past Granette without a pause. Granette's skin was much sallower than usual, he was following Mannering's example with cheek pads, and he affected a long, waxed moustache. His dress was definitely French provincial, his hair was long, and he had the affected manner – his acting was superb, for even motionless he created the effect – of the eccentric.

In his guise Granette had been quite a celebrity on board the
Orientes,
Mannering imagined as he walked past. Granette glanced at him; past him.

A little man in a spotless white jacket came hurrying past, and Mannering saw Granette in the distance, his back towards them. “Steward!”

“Yes, sir.” The man paused.

“That gentleman along there – I seem to recognise him. Don't want to make a damn fool mistake. D'you know his name?”

The steward glanced along the deck to see the figure of the eccentric
M'sieu
Digonne who had proved generous on board and a surprisingly heavy drinker of whisky and soda.

“That's Moosoo Digonne, sir.”

“Digonne, Digonne?” Mannering repeated the name, and shook his head. “Not my man, not my man. All right, steward, thank you.”

Silver changed hands, the little steward walked past “Moosoo Digonne”, and Mannering paid another visit to the purser's office. There was a Hugo Digonne in one of the outer cabins on A deck, a double cabin which had had only one occupant during the trip. Mannering had reserved a cabin on A deck, but it was badly placed for getting at Number 8 – Granette's, or Hugo Digonne's – apartments.

Itching to be working, Mannering was tempted to visit the cabin immediately, but he forced the temptation back. Lunch would be early and Granette would probably take it. At eleven-thirty Mannering ensconced himself in the dining-saloon, and at eleven forty-five “Moosoo Digonne” arrived, glancing about him and sitting down at a table some distance from Mannering.

The waiter who was bringing roast beef to Mannering's table saw the tall, portly man gulp and lean back in his chair. Mannering looked up at him, and his lips were pressed very tightly together. He made one effort to speak and then gave it up, rushing headlong from the saloon. The waiter shrugged, used to those antics.

“'E got it early,” he said, and on the far side of the saloon Granette told himself that any man who was seasick at that stage in the journey should avoid boats. Granette was in a more vicious mood than ever, for the report of Kelworthy's capture and the Baron's possession of the four stones brought him to a pitch of livid fury. Twice he had tried to kill the Baron: it would be his first job when he reached England and had put the Flame Ruby safely away. Granette went on with his soup.

Mannering reached A deck and walked up and down, towards the passages and the companionways. No one was in sight, and he could hear no talking in the cabins excepting in Number 24, well removed from Granette's Number 8.

He stepped swiftly to the door of Number 8. It was locked, so Mannering slipped a pick-lock from his pocket, twisting it quickly and expertly. The seconds seemed to drag, and again there was the ever-present knowledge that a single slip on board would be the end. He could not make a run for it; whoever saw him would recognise him as Mr. Miller, and he would be revealed as Mannering before he left the ship.

Mannering's heart was hammering as the pick-lock found its groove and the lock clicked back. He entered quickly, with a last glance in either direction. The white jacket of a steward appeared round a corner. Mannering stopped by the door, but the man's footsteps passed.

Mannering stood on the threshold of Granette's cabin.

It was a spacious, two-roomed apartment, and Mannering hesitated for a fraction of a second before he slipped into the bedroom. He started work quickly, opening all the drawers and going through them methodically, replacing the contents as well as he could. Nothing came to hand, but Granette was away for at least half an hour, and he had good time.

At the end of twenty minutes the Baron had opened everything in the rooms, but for a small drawer in the top of the dressing-table. It was locked, and none of the keys lying on the robette had fitted it. Mannering turned back to it, his pick-lock at hand again, and the lock opened quickly.

He pulled out the drawer, not knowing whether to expect the best. Would Granette keep the ruby there?

Mannering laughed, even against himself.

Spirit gum, greasepaint, and mascara, with other oddments, were in the drawer. Granette needed his make-up daily, and he locked the impedimenta away. If he locked up lipstick what would he do with the ruby? Mannering stood back, without pushing the drawer. He was reasonably confident that the ruby was not in the cabin, unless Granette had prised up a board. That was difficult here, unlike a house, where he could do what he liked.

Then he heard the handle of the door turn.

The footsteps had come softly, but he had fancied they had gone past Number 8. Now he darted aside swiftly and noiselessly, and he was behind the door when it opened.

Granette, or “Moosoo Digonne”, stepped quietly into the cabin and half-turned to push the door. As he turned he saw something move, saw someone standing against the green-painted walls of the cabin. He stood there with the door wide open, his lips agape and incredulity in his eyes at the sight of Mr. James L. Miller, who had a gun in his right hand.

“Close the door,” said the Baron softly.

He did not try to disguise his voice, and knew that Granette had recognised him from it.

“
Nom de Dieu – le Baron
!”

“Close the door,” repeated Mannering, and Granette backed stiffly towards the door, closing it as he went. There was no play-acting about his manner now.

The door closed, while Granette stood with his hand on the handle. Slowly his colour came back to normal, a light that was not just fear and stupefaction showed in his eyes.

“Getting back to normal, are you, Granette?” Mannering said. “Perhaps you'll remember what happened in Paris?”

“In—Paris.” The words were a sigh.

“With your knife,” said the Baron very softly, and he pointed to the red scar just below his collar. “That was very nearly the end for me, Granette. I was as close then as you are now.”

“No—
no
!” gasped Granette.

“I told you once before, it's not so nice when you're the victim,” said the Baron, and his gun hand moved. “I've come for you, and I'm going to get you. Kelworthy is waiting trial, with Olling, and they'll get a lighter sentence than they deserve for one good reason. They kept quiet when I told them to, and they gave me the Sea of Fire. Does that make sense?”

Granette seemed like a figure carved from stone, and now the Baron was wondering what was in the other's mind, was sure Granette would not give way as easily as it seemed. Yet the man was cornered, it was easy to believe that he was a coward at heart.

“You want—the ruby?”

“What a quick mind you have,” congratulated the Baron. “Yes, I want the ruby. Where is it?”

His tone hardened again, and he took a half-step towards Granette. The Frenchman shivered, and his right hand moved slowly towards his vest pocket. Mannering stopped him.

“Take your coat and vest off,” said the Baron, “and spread them out on that couch.”

The glitter in Granette's eyes told him that he had stopped the man going for his knife. Keeping the gun trained on Granette, he felt the pockets of the coat and vest. There was a gun, a knife of the stiletto type – perhaps the brother to that which had all but cut Mannering's throat – but there were no precious stones. Certainly the Flame Ruby, the last of the five Jewels of Castilla, was not there.

Granette was not acting the coward now, and there was something in his attitude that made the Baron very wary. His first look of shock, of fear, at his unexpected discovery of the Baron, seemed now to be mingled with one of a certain defiant triumph.

“You're a fool to try and put anything across me,” Mannering said. “Remember I've an excellent plea of self-defence if there should be an accident. I'm not fooling.”

“Aren't you?” Granette sneered, and in the disguise he looked sinister, unreal, a strange caricature of Jules Granette. “Then try it, Mannering. Kill me if you want to – and
then
try and find the ruby.”

“
Where is it
?”

“An interesting point,” said Granette, and he was at his best now, the battle was of words and wits, but the Baron knew that the moment would come when Granette would refuse to obey, despite the threat of the gun.

Mannering dared not shoot, to wound or kill, on board the
Orientes.
That was a simple fact, and Granette knew it. He was smiling thinly, and he moved towards the table for cigarettes.

“What you call check,
hein
? What are you going to do, Mannering?”

“It's easy,” Mannering said. “I'm going to tell the Captain that I've recognised you as Granette, and that you're wanted for the Van Royton robbery. He won't believe me, but he'll phone Scotland Yard. The Yard knows that you impersonated me at Chelsea, knows that you, not I, was in New York. Kelworthy is a prisoner and Olling an easy talker. What now?”

Granette moved.

The Baron had never seen a man move so fast. He could not follow the jerk from the wrist to the waistband, but he saw the knife that leapt to Granette's hand, while he was still two yards from the Frenchman. He moved his left hand upwards, with the revolver as the knife hummed towards his chest. There was a sharp, stinging pain as the blade cut through Mannering's wrist. For a second his fingers seemed nerveless and the gun dropped with a clatter to the floor.

Mannering shot out his right and forced Granette back, but the Frenchman stopped and grabbed the knife from the floor as he went. Mannering was by the bed, his left wrist bleeding freely and the other knife was close to his right hand.

Granette did not throw the stiletto this time. If he missed he would be weaponless. He came forward, the knife upraised, and it was obvious that he was prepared to take a chance of getting away with murder. Mannering's right fingers closed about the hilt of the dagger, and he jumped backwards. That downward sweep missed, but Granette twisted round like an eel. Mannering saw the knife come again and knew that he would have to fight knife to knife. Laporte's face floated in front of his mind, and odd fragments of all he had ever learned of sword and dagger play.

His knife went up towards Granette's, steel slid along steel and the two knives locked at the short handles. Mannering felt the hot breath on his face, felt Granette moving his leg to knee him, for they were pressed closely together. Mannering forced the other away. He needed a breather, and kept back, with Granette bobbing and weaving, the knife thrusting forward and Mannering's going out to meet it.

Granette rushed in, and the knife flashed past Mannering's guard. Mannering twisted round and the knife sliced through his coat and shirt: but for a moment Granette was helpless. Mannering swung his point towards Granette's neck. Whatever happened he could not kill the man, he was fighting a different type of battle, but he could frighten Granette.

His knife point touched Granette's fingers near the handle of the knife. Granette gasped and the knife went whirling through the air, cracking against the wall and dropping back within a yard of Mannering's foot.

He stamped on it, breaking the steel into a dozen pieces; then he took a step back, breathing hard, but smiling, with Granette opposite him, helpless without his knife, and swaying to and fro on his feet. His fingers were hardly scratched.