Held At Bay (3 page)

Chapter Four

Fifty-Fifty

Lorna Fauntley and her mother were staying at the Elan. Mannering took Lorna back, reaching the hotel just after three, and after a night of furious gaiety. It was Lorna's way of facing up to weeks away from Mannering, with the knowledge that he faced the risk of capture so often.

Mannering was back at his flat soon after four. He made sure that no one had been there, undressed quickly, set an alarm for eight, and got into bed.

He was awake just before eight, and watched the sun shining through the bedroom window – the only time of the day he could see it in the flat. For ten minutes he went through a miscellany of Swedish exercises with his own variations, bathed, shaved, and rang to the service kitchen for tea. He was due at the Elan by nine o'clock to take Lorna and Lucy Fauntley to Victoria.

At eight forty-five on the dot his tea came, and with it the morning papers. Mannering wished the messenger boy good morning, poured out tea, and opened the
Daily Cry.

The headline ran right across the front page in half-inch letters. He had seen such headlines before, practically word for word, but then he had been prepared; this was a bolt from the blue.

THE BARON BUSY AGAIN!

Mannering stood with a cup of tea poised near his lips. Very carefully he drank the tea, sat down and read through the letterpress. A little pulse beat fast at the side of his head, a sure sign that he was troubled.

The home of Mr. Archibald Price, in Chenny Street, Chelsea, had been burgled between eleven-thirty and two o'clock on the previous night, and nearly thirty thousand pounds worth of gems had been stolen. There was no mention of the Sea of Fire, for Price had no idea he had ever owned that particular emerald. No one had seen the thief, who had burned open a strong room door with an oxy-acetylene burner, and on the stairs of the house had been one of the few things that could be used to identify the Baron. A blue silk handkerchief, with a slit in the middle.

A blue silk handkerchief, with a slit in the middle.

Mannering read the report twice, then stood up and went to his wardrobe. From the pockets of his coat he took a blue handkerchief, with a slit that enabled him to smoke while wearing it. He dropped it into the fireplace, and struck a match. The last embers were still smouldering, and the smell of burning was still in the room, when a knock came sharply at the front door.

Mannering pressed the service bell as he walked towards the door. He suspected who was outside, and his guess was right. Chief Inspector William Bristow, of Scotland Yard, a spruce, well-dressed man of medium height with his invariable gardenia in his button hole, his hair just a little greyer than when Mannering had last seen him, was standing there.

Bristow's features were good, his skin pale, and his upper lip was decorated with a close-clipped, nicotine-stained moustache. Mannering knew and liked him well.

Bristow nodded his head slowly, as though to say: “So you're at it again,” and Mannering's smile looked the most innocent thing in the world.

“Well, Bill, fancy seeing you.”

“Yes, fancy,” said Bill Bristow. He walked past Mannering, and then started as someone else reached the door. Mannering was smiling at the messenger.

“More tea and another cup, Sam, please.” He closed the door and sauntered back into the room, quite self-possessed. “It's a long time since we had tea together, Bill. I've a phone call to make, and then my time's all yours.”

“Who are you going to telephone?” demanded Bristow.

“Lady Fauntley,” said Mannering. “I was due at the Elan at nine, but I doubt whether I shall make it. One of the rules of life, Bill, is never to keep a lady waiting.”

Lucy Fauntley was up and talkative; Lorna was already downstairs, she said. He told her that he might be delayed half an hour, apologised for his haste, and replaced the receiver. Bristow was looking at the headlines on the
Daily Cry.

“I'd hoped you'd stopped this business,” he said heavily.

“I've never started it,” said Mannering. Whether they were alone or not, he made no admissions. “You keep confusing me with the Baron, Bill, and one day it'll give you indigestion. But I've an idea that the Baron is feeling very annoyed at the moment.”

“Why?” Bristow spoke sharply.

“For an excellent reason,” said Mannering dreamily. “I don't believe the Baron was at Price's house last night. In fact I'm sure he wasn't.”

“Why keep it up,” said Bristow almost wearily. “You were at that place last night.”

“My dear Bill, I was no nearer Chelsea than the Elan and the
Cat and Fiddle.
I can offer you several hundred witnesses that I was at the
Cat and Fiddle
from ten-thirty till two, if you want them.” He was speaking with more seriousness than usual when he talked to Bristow, and the Chief Inspector was frowning. Mannering's alibis were usually slim, and this seemed water-tight. “According to this, Price himself was in his strong room at eleven-fifteen, before going to bed.”

“He was,” Bristow said. “And the burglary was discovered at just before two o'clock. You're
sure
you were at the
Cat and Fiddle
?”

“I certainly was. I don't know where the Baron was, but I don't think he was at Chenny Street.”

“If you weren't, he wasn't,” said Bristow, grimly.

The boy returned, and Mannering poured tea before Bristow could go on. He proffered cigarettes, and Bristow lit one.

“If you weren't at the place last night, then someone planted the handkerchief to frame you. That's it, isn't it?”

“To frame the Baron,” corrected Mannering. “Not the kind of thing the Baron's likely to appreciate, is it?”

“Not from what I know of him,” said Bristow. His expression was harder than usual. “That's very interesting—”

“For God's sake don't keep talking like a phrase book,” said Mannering. “Are you satisfied I wasn't at Chenny Street last night?”

“I'd like to look round here first,” said Bristow.

It was not the first time he had asked to search Mannering's flat, after a robbery, and generally the Baron made him welcome. It was an indulgence, he would say, because he was a friend of Bristow. But he did not feel indulgent that morning.

“You're not going to search without a warrant,” he said. “If you want a warrant for this job, get it with pleasure. It might do something to get the silly idea that I'm the Baron out of your mind. All right, anything else?”

Bristow looked at him thoughtfully.

“Not yet,” he said. “I'll get that warrant.”

“Get it and be damned,” said Mannering. “More tea?”

Bill Bristow had an acute sense of humour, although there were times when he was a little slow in seeing a point. For a moment he stared at Mannering angrily, and then he started to laugh. He was still chuckling, and Mannering was smiling grimly, when they left the flat together. They parted in Piccadilly.

Mannering went straight to the Elan. Lorna asked no questions, although she must have seen the papers. Mannering said nothing until he put her on the boat train at Victoria, and Lucy Fauntley – a middle-aged, good-natured and understanding woman – had been settled in her corner. Lord Fauntley, a peppery little financial magnate and jewel-collector, was in America on business, and the women were travelling alone.

“I'll phone you once or twice,” Mannering said as they walked along the platform. “It was a false alarm last night of course. Some damned fool thinks it'll be useful to cross the trails.”

“Just a damned fool?” asked Lorna.

“Please yourself,” said Mannering, but she could judge the anger underneath the surface of his smile. “If it was anyone more than a fool, he's going to suffer for it. Don't worry, darling, we've been through worse than this. Bristow doesn't appear to think I was in two places at once. It'll be refreshing to work side-by-side with the police.”

Mannering stopped.

Lorna wondered why, and then realised that he was looking farther along the platform. She saw the tall, thin, dark-faced man walking towards them, deep in conversation with a short, florid-faced companion. Her first thought was that the short man had no neck. Her next was that Mannering was regarding them, and she heard his low-pitched words: “Granette, my sweet, is the tall one. Red Face is Olling by name.” Mannering had his back to the newcomers now, and he did not think they had seen him. “They're making for the boat, and they're on the way to Paris or I'm a Dutchman. Find out, will you? On the train if you can or from Paris, and wire or phone me.”

“Yes, of course,” Lorna said, but she could not keep a vision of Jules Granette's handsome yet sharp-featured face out of her mind. She felt suddenly cold, and very afraid, although John looked completely at ease.

A guard's whistle sounded shrilly.

“Time to go,” Mannering said. “Don't stay long in Paris, sweetheart, but travel straight through. That's a promise?”

“Mother permitting,” she said. “She hopes to stay in Paris for a few days. Be careful, John, more careful than ever.”

“Believe me I will.” Mannering handed her into her compartment and closed the door. Lucy Fauntley leaned forward for a moment, to say goodbye. Lorna waved out of the window as the train chugged off, while Mannering turned and walked towards the barrier, fingering his platform ticket.

He was thinking of the third of the five Jewels of Castilla in Paris, and owned by a well known Parisian jewel-collector. Pierre Panneraude lived in the Champs-Elysees, and Mannering had been occasionally to his house. Panneraude's evening cocktail parties were almost as famous as his collection of diamonds, and the Crown of Castile – the Castilla stone – was one of his prize pieces.

Granette was almost certainly going after it.

Mannering was not so busy puzzling out the situation as he was wondering what he should do. Granette, of course, had planted the blue handkerchief at Price's house. Granette and the Kelworthy gang were determined to get him into the hands of the police. The obvious thing to do was follow Granette. On the other hand, he might be able to get the fourth stone, with Salmonson in London, while Granette was in Paris. It was fifty-fifty, and it would be fifty-fifty later, if they had two stones apiece.

Mannering knew that the big struggle would come when all five stones were shared between him and the Kelworthy syndicate. He walked along Victoria Street towards Westminster, and every few yards saw a placard announcement:

THE BARON AGAIN!

He was beginning to realise the full danger of Granette's impersonation. Until that morning, the Press and the police had been quiet about the Baron, who had not been active for some months. Now everyone would be alerted, every newspaperman and every policeman would be watching for the Baron. His task would be doubly difficult. Every jewel merchant in Hatton Garden would be on guard – although the Baron had not yet struck at London's market place of precious stones – and every private collector would double his precautions.

Mannering walked along Victoria Street, and paused to look into a hosier's shop window. He could see the people walking on the far side of the road, and slowly his lips curved at the corners.

Mannering would have known Detective Sergeant ‘Tanker' Tring anywhere in the world. Tring, a small, stringy man with a perfect knowledge of routine and a positive lack of imagination, was dawdling opposite the hosier's, and reading a midday paper. His bowler hat was always a size too large for him, and he was wearing big, brown shoes. Bristow knew that Mannering would recognise the sergeant, so Tring was on the trail simply to engage Mannering's attention. There must be another man from the Yard nearby, someone whom Mannering did not know.

But one thought persisted in his mind. Salmonson of Hatton Garden had the Diamond of Desire. Granette was out of England, and could not go for it. The time was ripe for an attempt on Hatton Garden, and even before he reached his flat his mind was made up.

The quicker he started the quicker it would be over. With luck he might even get Salmonson's diamond, and fly to Paris in time to beat Granette to Panneraude's house.

The gauntlet had been flung down, and at heart he knew that nothing would stop him from taking it up.

Chapter Five

Exploration

Mannering did not go to his flat immediately. The first task was to find his second shadow, and to lose him as well as Tanker Tring. Ten minutes earlier he had almost been depressed. Now he felt excited.

He reached the pavement by Westminster Station, hesitating outside a jeweller's and fancy goods shop facing Big Ben. Tring was on the same side of the pavement, and Mannering entered the shop. As a salesman approached him he angled himself so that he could see Tring, and his eyes shone when a well-built youngster approached the sergeant: obviously Tring's second string.

The man was dressed in blue serge and a bowler hat, normal enough, especially in a plainclothes policeman. His face might have been called ordinary, but his nose was pushed a little to one side. His eyes were blue, keen and alert, his chin full and heavy.

“
Good
morning, sir,” said the salesman for the third time.

“Sorry, I was day-dreaming. You've some wrist-watches in the window at five pounds; I'll take one.”

“Certainly,
sir,” said the salesman. He was astonished that a daydreaming customer should buy a watch with no more than a casual glance at it. He was so curious that he followed him to the door, and saw him bang into Sergeant Tring.

The salesman knew most of the men at Scotland Yard, and his eyes widened. He heard Tring grunt, and saw the handsome customer's flashing smile.

“Why, Tring, of all people! Keeping busy these days?”

“Plenty to do,” said Tanker Tring glumly. He was a dyspeptic man, who despaired of ever catching the Baron. Like Bristow, he had a deep respect for Mannering. “Can't grumble, considering.”

“Considering what?” asked Mannering amiably.

“Things,” said Tanker Tring darkly. “I must be going, sir.”

He walked towards the Yard. Mannering knew that he was deliberately disarming suspicion, and chuckled to himself when he saw the keen-eyed young man. It was the easiest thing in the world to avoid a shadow whom you recognised.

He took the tube, booked to Piccadilly, changed at Charing Cross, and nearly lost his follower at the Piccadilly line there. But the Yard man was careful, and scraped into the train as the automatic doors closed. Mannering alighted, apparently without haste, at Piccadilly, then slipped to the opposite platform, instead of up the stairs. He was back at Charing Cross in ten minutes. There was no sign of the Yard man, who was at that moment standing in the roundabout beneath Eros, wondering how on earth Mannering had managed to dodge him.

Mannering went into a cloakroom and set to work. He slipped rubber sheaths over his teeth, making them look discoloured and unlike his own, and fitted cheek pads into his cheeks. The disguise was good enough to prevent him from being recognised at a casual glance, which was all he wanted just then. He went upstairs, after tipping the attendant, and beckoned a taxi. He walked stiffly, and his head was bent forward, lessening his height.

No one followed him.

Twenty minutes later he was walking along Wine Street, Aldgate, towards a house sandwiched between two doctors' residences. He knew the place well, and he was not surprised when a tall, almost white-haired man with his left coat sleeve hanging empty, opened the door before he knocked.

Flick Leverson was perhaps the best-known and most successful fence in the East End. Mannering had often worked with him, and had come to like the man. Leverson, with his courtly manner, his easy smile and his scrupulous fairness in all details, was a character in a million. Mannering did not know, but the left arm had been lost in an air crash. He did know that the
objets d'art
in the large room into which Leverson led him were genuine; Leverson was a real lover of the antique.

Leverson closed the door, and pointed to a chair.

“It's some time since I had the pleasure of a visit. But you've been busy again, I see.”

Mannering had long since given up pretending that he was not the Baron to Flick Leverson.

“So a lot of other people think,” he said. “But they're not altogether right. You're thinking of the Chelsea affair?”

“Naturally.” Leverson looked puzzled.

Mannering accepted a cigarette, eyed it for a moment and then glanced back at Leverson.

“Do you think I'd leave a handkerchief behind, when there was no alarm and no haste?”

“I was surprised,” Leverson said, without altering his tone. “Wasn't it you?”

“It was not.”

“That's an ugly trick. Have you any idea who it was?”

Mannering sent smoke streaming towards the ceiling, and leaned back in his chair. He looked unworried, although he was watching carefully for the one-armed fence's reaction.

“Granette, of the Kelworthy syndicate,” he announced.

The effect was instantaneous. Leverson stiffened for a moment with a cigar half way to his lips. There was a glint of anxiety in his grey eyes.

“I'm sorry, Mannering. Granette is one of the few men I cannot help you with. He is a lone worker. Olling sells all his and the syndicate's stuff. I've heard Granette is dangerous, and that he carries a gun.”

“I'll be careful,” Mannering promised. “Can you give me any information about them?”

“None at all,” Leverson said. “I only wish I could.”

“Pity, but it can't be helped,” said Mannering. “Well, I'm thinking of going to Paris, Flick, and I want a place there where I can pick up some tools, and if necessary leave a parcel safely.”

“I can help you there,” said Leverson, promptly. “Do you know Paris well?”

“Reasonably.”

“Then you'll know the Rue de Platte, just off the Place de la Republique. There's a shop there, owned by a man named Grionde – G-R-I-O-N-D-E. I'll wire him a message to expect you sometime within—”

“The next week.”

“He'll have whatever you want, and you can trust him completely,” declared Leverson. “Is that all?”

“I'm afraid not,” said Mannering. “Do you know anything of Salmonson, the Hatton Garden merchant? I've never dealt with him.”

“Don't,” said Leverson bluntly. “He can't be trusted. Unless, of course, you were thinking of the Baron taking an interest in him.”

“I was,” said Mannering.

“I can think of no one who deserves trouble more, unless it is the Kelworthy syndicate. I won't rant about Salmonson but be sure that he is one of the most unpleasant members in the trade. He has perfected a scheme of blackmail that the police can't break, and half of his stock is obtained from women who have been indiscreet over love affairs. Is that enough?”

“It's exactly what I wanted to know,” Mannering said.

He left Wine Street ten minutes later, feeling very cheerful. There was always more zest in robbing a man of Salmonson's type than men like Don Manuel y Alverez de Castilla. Mannering wondered how he had obtained the Desire Diamond. He took a taxi back to the West End, removed what disguise he had used inside the cab, and soon afterwards entered the shop of Mr. William Salmonson.

He was quick to notice the grille gate thrown back from the shop door. The grille was made of inch thick steel bars, and it was between the street door that led to the passage and the shop, and the shop door itself. A clerk assured him that Mr. Salmonson would be glad to see him.

Mannering was already prejudiced against Mr. William Salmonson, which perhaps explained why he disliked the man on sight. He distrusted his pale grey eyes, his square mouth and his square chin, as well as his ingratiating manner. He was obviously not a born Englishman, and Mannering imagined one of his parents had been Swedish or Danish.

On the other hand Salmonson had no reason to be prejudiced against Mannering, and while he neither liked nor disliked the man standing before him, his first impressions were good. It was easy to imagine that this customer was wealthy. Mannering was dressed in a grey lounge suit impeccable as to cut, and Salmonson scented wealth.

Mannering lost no time in getting to the point.

“So what you are really after is really
unusual
jewellery,” Salmonson said. “Well – yes, I
can
obtain it. But it costs a lot of money, Mr. Mannering.”

“I'm not worrying about price,” Mannering said almost testily.

“I
see.
Then we can talk serious business, Mr. Mannering.” Salmonson looked his caller up and down. “Some of the stones that pass through our hands are not for general sale. In fact there are many stones which their owners would hate to think were on the market. You probably know the custom as well as I do, my dear sir! So many of our great families have financial problems, and have to sell valuable heirlooms. They make paste replicas, which stay in their possession as the original. A harmless little deception.”

“I know a little about the jewel business,” Mannering told Salmonson. “Some stones like that are on the market, but seldom the best. It would be too dangerous for the owners. Have you met many collectors just wanting stones, who care nothing for history providing they get them? My own collection, for instance, is never on view, and collecting is my hobby. You follow me?”

“I certainly do, sir! Stones which are on the market and shouldn't be. I follow you.” Salmonson was at once jubilant and wary. “It is dangerous to meddle with them, mind you.”

“I was told you might be able to advise me of someone who would take the risk,” Mannering said.

“Were you, indeed? By whom?”

“Does it matter?”

Salmonson's eyes changed colour to slate grey, as he shook his head.

“Very well, let us be frank, Mr. Mannering. You will have no objection to buying stolen stones, if I could tell you where to get them.”

“You misunderstand me,” said Mannering. “I should certainly not buy anything that I knew to be stolen, but I would be quite prepared to buy stones with their history unknown – to me. I would probably have difficulty, for instance, in recognising the Koh-i-nor, providing it was well cut. An extreme example, but you follow me?”

“I do indeed,” enthused Salmonson. He did not doubt that a man of Mannering's reputation would be prepared to handle suspect gems, for he knew that the bigger collectors often cared nothing about right of ownership. Salmonson could have supplied the police with a long list of names of people who bought stolen jewels, officially unaware of their origin. And Mannering, with his wealth, was a client in a thousand. “I can show you certain gems which might interest you, although I haven't a great number. I can, however, recommend you to someone else who thinks a little less of his reputation than I do, Mr. Mannering. Frankly, I do not deal direct in matters like that. I am satisfied to take a very small commission for introducing business.”

“Will you show me what you have here? I'm not buying this morning, but I am coming into the market very soon.”

Salmonson stood up, smiling and showing his wide-spaced teeth.

“I understand, my dear sir! I will show you my own prize pieces with pleasure.”

Salmonson was smiling, and his hands were resting on his desk. Out of the corner of his eyes Mannering saw the man's right hand move towards a small inkstand. A moment later there was a sharp hissing sound, and in front of Mannering's eyes the wall on the right separated, showing a dark patch beyond. When he looked round Salmonson's hand was well away from the desk.

“That's very neat, Mr. Salmonson!”

“Isn't it?” Salmonson purred. “It leads to my vault, and it is the one and only entrance. With people like the Baron we can't be too careful. Just a moment, I'll switch on the light.”

For the next half hour Mr. William Salmonson did most of the talking, while displaying his prize pieces. Mannering showed more than an intelligent appreciation, and an even deeper interest in two diamonds that Salmonson privately ear-marked as sold. But he took a detailed mental note of a small safe that Salmonson did not open, in one corner of the vault. That safe almost certainly contained the Diamond of Desire, and probably other jewels of equal value.

And now the Baron knew the only entrance to the vault.