Held At Bay (18 page)

Mannering hardly saw the Frenchman.

He had glanced down at the pieces of steel, seeing that the handle was broken as well as the blade. And he saw something else, a stone that glinted dull red in the sunlight streaming through the porthole.

The Flame Ruby
!

Granette had hidden it in the handle of the knife; the one place where it must have seemed safe. But now the Baron stood there with Granette helpless and afraid, with the ruby within his grasp, the whole affair at an end as far as he could see, for he had the five jewels and there was nothing else to do; Granette would not dare to tell the police.

But the knock that came suddenly, urgently, on the cabin door jerked the Baron out of the excitement that had followed the discovery of the Flame. A steward's voice came, high-pitched and urgent.

“Are you all right, sir? Are you all right?”

Mannering saw the glitter in Granette's eyes, and for a moment he thought Granette was going to make a mad rush at him. But the Frenchman stood quite still.

“No—
no
!” The words came too quickly for Mannering to stop them. “I am robbed—the
Baron
!”

Chapter Twenty-Four

Touch And Go

There was a startled silence in the passage outside, then the steward's voice was raised in alarm, while Granette stood glaring. Mannering was poised with his right foot an inch from the Flame Ruby and staring at the Frenchman.

“So clever,” sneered Granette. “We will both get the sentence, eh, Mannering? Did you think I would let you win?”

Thoughts flashed through the Baron's mind. Granette had beaten him; when the cabin door was forced open he was finished – finished, the Baron was smashed. His disguise would be useless, for Bristow would be waiting at Southampton, summoned by radio. Lorna, Anita, Juan de Castilla – dozens of others seemed to flit across Mannering's mind, and he felt incapable of moving or speaking.

Granette was still sneering, and the steward was thundering on the cabin door, footsteps echoed along the passage and someone was shouting: “Bring a key—I haven't got mine—bring a key!”

“Your last moment of freedom,” said Granette very slowly.

It was then that the idea flashed into the Baron's mind.

He knew that he
could
make it succeed, and he did two things almost at the same time. Granette saw him step forward, but could not dodge the terrific upper-cut Mannering rammed to his point, Granette reared upwards and was falling as Mannering reached the cabin door. He heard the key slide in the lock as he hauled a heavy chair and jammed it against the door. That was barricade enough for what he wanted, and he swung back towards Granette, dipping his hand into his breast pocket. His blue silk scarf fluttered from his fingers, a scarf similar to Granette's.

Granette was getting to his feet, whimpering a little, and Mannering raised his voice to drown the sounds.

“Hurry—
hurry
!”

He hit Granette again, mercilessly beneath the chin. Granette groaned once and then dropped down, consciousness gone. Mannering heard the stewards pounding at the door as he whipped the scarf about Granette's neck and knotted it.

He would get through!

He pulled the other tools from his pockets, the equipment he had used for searching the cabin, and pushed them into Granette's trousers' pocket. The door was opening a fraction, but the chair had caught in the edge of the carpet and there was not enough room for a man to get through.

The Baron bent down, grabbing the ruby and the pieces of the broken blade – all close to Granette's body – talking all the time, like a man in delirium.

“Hurry—he's killing me—he—”

Men were swearing at the door, other footsteps were racing. Someone said: “Steady there, steady,” and then the door sagged. Mannering stopped still, dropping the broken pieces near Granette. Granette, with Mannering's knife in his right hand, with the blue silk scarf he had used to impersonate the Baron, and the tools in his pocket.

“I—thought—he'd—got—me!” gasped Mannering. He stared from the second officer to the cut on his wrist, where the blood was still welling. “Find me a drink, steward.”

“Hurry, Wyman!” ordered the second officer.

A steward swung round, pressing through the crowd gathered in the corridor. The officer, a middle-aged man with a leathery face and gold-crowned teeth, looked anxiously at Mannering.

“Are you all right, sir?”

“Yes. He—”

The second officer bent over Granette, saw his swollen lips moving a little and stood up.

“It's the Baron all right,” he said. “Unless it's that fellow who's impersonating him. You certainly clouted the swine! But this won't do, I must report. Exactly what happened, sir?”

Mannering pushed his hand through his hair, and stared dazedly at the officer.

“Can I—clear my head first? It was pretty dreadful. I didn't dream—” He was telling himself that after that second blow Granette would be unconscious for at least ten minutes, perhaps for twenty, and he had decided on his story. He had it pat by the time the whisky had arrived.

“This man – I thought I knew him – asked me to see him after lunch. I—I hadn't eaten well,” said Mannering, and he blessed the fact that there was corroborative evidence that he
had
been seasick, and
had
imagined he knew Digonne. “I came down here and waited in his cabin. He had given me permission, for the only cabin I could get was on the port side. I never liked—”

“I understand,” said the officer. “And then?”

“Obviously he didn't expect me to be here,” said Mannering. “I was dozing, and when I woke up I was astonished to see the man with the mask on – the Baron! I cried out in surprise, and he came at me with the knife and—well, I thought he had finished me, I really did.” Mr. Miller eased his neck and a dozen sympathetic eyes were turned towards him. “I shouted, and your men alarmed him. He was off his guard for a moment, and I hit out for all I was worth. I hope it wasn't too hard.”

“He's not dead,” said the officer. “He'll be ready for the Old Bailey. I must report to the Captain at once, of course, and he will want to see you before you go ashore. Wyman, send for Dr. Spendow, and have three men in this cabin until I come back.”

“Yes, sir, certainly.”

Mannering started.

“Did you say ashore?”

“We're berthing now, sir,” said the other. “Will you wait in this cabin?”

“In my own, in my own, please,” said Mannering. “Of course I'll wait. Number 20, I think, or 21. What about this—this fellow?”

“I've given orders about him, sir,” said the officer patiently. He escorted Mannering along the corridor to the door of Number 20. Stewards kept curious passengers away, and Mannering saw with relief that only a steward was with them. The gold-crowned teeth flashed and gave an order.

“Smith, wait here for me, and don't let anyone go in. You'll be all right, Mr. Miller?”

“Thank you, thank you!” said Mannering.

He locked the door – and then began to move. He reached the bathroom, slipping the cheek pads out, and the rubber off his teeth. Mannering, not Miller, was appearing. He scrubbed his hair violently, getting most of the grey off, working desperately and tensely. In five minutes John Mannering stood there, upright, well-groomed, debonair, forcing himself to act his part even without an audience.

He opened the door silently.

He saw the back of the faithful Smith – placed there, he guessed, to make sure Mr. Miller did not try to make himself scarce. One steward had seemed enough for Mr. Miller. Mannering took a step forward, rapping a rabbit's punch to the steward's neck as the man half-turned. A single short cry came as Smith dropped down. Mannering dragged him into the cabin, and even then he showed one of those mad, quixotic impulses typical of the Baron. He slipped his wallet out and pushed a five pound note between the steward's neck and collar, spending precious seconds that might bring disaster. But the corridor was empty as he went out and closed the door.

He was at the foot of the nearest companionway when he saw the sympathetic officer turning the corner from the deck, with the short, red-faced Commander of the
Orientes.

Mannering's heart thudded, his hands were clenched.

Would he be recognised?

He could not turn back without raising suspicions, he had to face this out, but as they approached and he waited for them, lighting a cigarette to hide his face, he felt like turning and rushing away.

Both men glanced at him and passed by.

Mannering felt the perspiration on his forehead, but his heart was light, triumph was in his mind as he went on, with the mad refrain in his mind that he was through, he had won!

He mingled with the crowd pressing towards the gangways and the quayside, all anxious to get a comfortable seat on the train to Waterloo, although Mannering's objective was not London. In the hustle and bustle of the liner's arrival Southampton Docks was a friendly place, familiar and welcome to the Baron. He had his own passport, and there was nothing to hinder his progress.

He was on the station platform when the shock came.

He had not dreamed of trouble, until he saw Chief Inspector William Bristow walking there.
Bristow,
here!

Mannering was very close to panic, for Bristow seemed to be making straight for him, but he slipped behind a pillar and a crowd of waiting passengers as Bristow came up. The Chief Inspector turned towards the docks, with Sergeant Tanker Tring close behind him.

Mannering did not breathe freely until the two were out of sight. He guessed what had brought them: word had been wirelessed the moment there was talk of the Baron on board the
Orientes,
and Bristow had come down without a moment's delay.

But how had he had time?

Chief Inspector William Bristow, as it happened, had decided that the
Orientes
was the most likely ship to carry the passenger with the Flame Ruby from New York, and he had come down to meet the liner. As he passed Mannering he was fuming at the delay, for his train had been twenty minutes late. When he reached the Custom's shed one of the look-out men from the Yard approached him quickly.

“'Morning, Mr. Bristow, you can smell it, can't you? You've heard?”

“Heard what, man?” Bristow glared.

“There's been a schemozzle on board, and they reckon they've got the Baron.”

The dock detective did not finish, for Bristow was already hurrying towards the liner. He had no trouble to get aboard, and none in finding a steward to lead him to Cabin 8, where the Commander, two subordinates and the ship's surgeon had been gathered for the past twenty minutes. Another steward outside the door glanced at Bristow's card and admitted him promptly. Bristow stepped in, prepared to see John Mannering.

He saw a man on the couch whom he did not recognise, although he learned very soon it was Jules Granette. The ship's officers all looked grimmer than this occasion seemed to warrant. Bristow stepped forward briskly, recognising the Commander.

“Good morning, gentlemen.”

Then Bristow stopped.

He was looking at the man on the couch, and something there seemed to fascinate him. The man's lips were not moving and he seemed unnaturally still. Bristow's eyes flashed to the surgeon, and the man nodded abruptly.

“I'm afraid so, Inspector. There was a fight, as you've probably heard, and this man was knocked out. He fell on a piece of broken knife that was sticking in the carpet, and it pierced through his back to the heart. He lived for ten minutes or so, but—”

Bristow was feeling very cold.

“And—is this supposed to be the Baron?”

“Yes, he—”

“Where is the other man?” demanded Bristow.

Ten minutes later he had the whole story, but neither the leather-faced officer nor the Commander had seen Mannering enough to be able to offer anything of a description. But Bristow believed it had been Mannering, and not a portly gentleman named Miller. The wires were soon humming, and word went out to pick Mannering up when he reached Waterloo, and for men to wait at the Clarges Street flat.

There was a real chance of getting him this time.

But as the boat train drew into Waterloo, with the police watching the barriers for John Mannering, the Baron was sitting in the cottage near Listington, with Lorna lazing in a hammock nearby and Ted Lenville standing and looking down on the older man incredulously.

“So you got them
all,
Mannering? Every damned stone!”

“Oh, he's remarkably clever,” said Lorna sleepily. “He might get killed one day, but that won't worry him, for he has the luck of the devil.”

“We're getting to know each other too well,” smiled Mannering. “What time did you get here?”

“I was here all night,” said Lorna.

“I arrived just after seven,” said Lenville. “Is that all right?”

“You are both able to offer evidence that I've been here since seven o'clock, even at some risk to Lorna's reputation.”

“You took that years ago,” Lorna said.

“Call it luck if you like,” said Lenville, “I think it's damned clever. They can't prove you were on board the
Orientes,
even if any of the passengers thought they saw you coming off.”

“Didn't I tell you how clever he was,” murmured Lorna.

Some time later they realised the narrowness of the Baron's escape. Had he been unable to “prove” his presence at the cottage, there would have been a more serious charge than burglary and housebreaking to face. But Bristow found himself against a brick wall again, for Lenville was as loyal as Lorna Fauntley.

“And after all,” said Mannering to Bristow on the following day, “Granette isn't the type of man who ought to be around, Bill. Try and ease your conscience with that and forget to look for the man who killed him.”

Don Manuel y Alverez de Castilla, tall, white-haired and with the dignity and courtesy of a century before, looked tolerantly at Anita, who was happy and excited that night, the five jewels almost forgotten in a sudden discovery that Ted Lenville was no longer a tongue-tied and rather hesitant young man. She asked for no explanation, and Lenville felt remarkably happy. Juan de Castilla was a little subdued, but Mannering and Lorna Fauntley were in spirits high enough even to make Don Manuel start laughing.

It was over the dessert that Mannering first broached the subject of the five Jewels of Castilla.

He did so quickly, and abruptly, anxious to see the Don's reaction, but his smile was lazy, his voice casual.

“You've learned that the Baron is after the Castilla jewels, Don Manuel. Or hasn't Anita told you?”

The old man's eyes sparkled suddenly, and Mannering could sense his anger.

“She has not spoken, Mr. Mannering. But I read the papers, and I understand. First Price, then Salmonson, then Van Royton. This man is getting the five jewels that mean so much to us. And then, I doubt not, he will sell to the highest market. That is your belief?”