Help From The Baron (11 page)

The Lessings’ flat?

Mannering stood up. Lorna would expect him on the dot of six, and he couldn’t blame her. He would be pre-occupied at the Plenders’, but would undoubtedly be forgiven. He could have calls put through from the office and the flat to the Plenders’. Lorna would complain but accept it. Lorna . . .

The telephone bell rang.

“That’s wonderful,” he said, “it’ll begin now that I ought to be on my way.” He lifted the instrument.

“Mr. Chittering has called, sir,” Trevor said.

“John,” said Chittering of the Record, as he came briskly into the office. “You are a double-dyed villain.”

“Why sound surprised?” asked Mannering. “Chair?”

“Thanks. A treble-dyed rogue of the nastiest kind.”

“Have you been talking to Bill Bristow? Cigarette.”

“Good idea. No. A man named Ephraim Scoby.”

“Ephraim?”

“Scoby. At least, that’s the name he gave me at his hotel, and it sounds too unreal to be false. How well do you know him?”

“I don’t think I do.”

“He was outside Quinns this afternoon when you told me in that heavy-handed way of yours to make myself scarce.”

“You mean . . .” began Mannering, and chuckled. “So you followed him. Where?”

“All over London. At first I don’t think he knew he was being followed, but afterwards I came to the conclusion that he did, and was enjoying it. Finally, he invited me to have a drink. I’ve just left him.”

“Has there been time for it to act?” asked Mannering.

Chittering sounded blank. “For what to act?”

“The poison.”

“You misjudge Citizen Ephraim Scoby. He is the whitest of white sheep, the pure young man who would not tell a lie, do a dirty trick, cheat, defraud or otherwise be illegal. He only wants to make sure that others get their rights. I know all this,” added Chittering, “because he told me so. Earnestly.”

“He sounds untouchable.”

“He’s in very great trouble - emotional and ethical trouble, you understand.”

“Good.”

“He doesn’t want to tell the police that you have the Fiora Collection,” announced Chittering.

He didn’t smile. He didn’t play with his cigarette, his hair or anything on the desk. He just sat there without expression, and his clear blue eyes, childish in their directness, were upon Mannering. It was a shock to Mannering, and it took him several seconds to adjust himself to the swing of events. At last he said: “What a villain I am. And I hadn’t realised it.”

“Got ’em, John?”

“No.”

“Not holding them for the rightful owner and drawing the crooks’ fire, are you?”

“No.”

“I hope I can believe you.” Chittering relaxed. “Between you and me, I don’t care for this Scoby chap much. He is the ultra-smooth kind. He has it all under control. He doesn’t threaten, just says what a pity it all is and hopes that you won’t live to regret holding those jewels. He says he is quite sure that you have them, and he seems to mean what he says. In fact,” added Chittering with a grin which made him look positively angelic, “he appealed to me, as a gentleman and a friend of yours, to persuade you to deal with him. After all, he said, no one would want you or your reputation to suffer.”

“He’s not bad at all, is he?” murmured Mannering; but he looked worried. “I wonder who gave him the idea that I had the jewels.”

“He didn’t give me a clue. He did say one thing that got under my skin, John. You know how it is.” Chittering helped himself to another cigarette from a box which Mannering pushed towards him. He became very serious. “Thanks. A lot of verbiage rolls off one. This man is economical in what he says, and I always had a feeling that there was something more behind it. The thing he said was this: ‘Francesca Lisle was lucky, but not every girl in the case can be sure of the same luck.’ “

Chittering paused, then struck a match; the sound and the flame added a stab of menace to the words.

“Where did you have this heart-to-heart talk?” Mannering asked.

“In his hotel room - he’s at Bowing’s. He’s been there for two days, hasn’t stayed at the place before, and is booked until the end of the week.”

“Thanks. He put himself in your hands pretty meekly, didn’t he?”

“We mentioned that,” murmured Chittering. “He said that hearsay isn’t evidence, that he’d deny everything, that he’d found out I was a good friend of yours and wouldn’t want you hurt. He took a chance, knowingly. If you ask me, he’ll cut and run at the first sign of police trouble. That’s beside the point,” Chittering went on. “What will you do?”

Mannering’s lips began their upward curve.

“Hadn’t I better pay him a visit?”

“John,” advised Chittering, with great deliberation, “be careful with Mr. Ephraim Scoby. He is dangerous, like a snake. Whether you have these Fioras or whether you haven’t, I think he really believes you have.”

“I’ll be very careful,” promised Mannering, “but someone has to disillusion him.” He glanced at his watch. “I must go, Lorna will have my neck if I’m not home by six. We’re due at - ”

The telephone bell rang. Mannering hesitated and scowled at it, and then lifted it. Chittering didn’t get up.

“Yes?”

“It’s Trevor again, sir, sorry to interrupt you,” said Trevor, who always lacked confidence on the telephone, “but there is a young - ah - lady here, who says that she must see you. She says . . .”

“Tell her I’m sorry,” Mannering said, “and that I’ll gladly see her in the morning. I must go home now, I’ve an urgent appointment.” He rang off before Trevor could speak again, and got up. “If it’s important to her, she’ll stay and we’ll see her as we go out. Talked to the Yard lately, Chitty?”

“No. Should I?”

“They picked up Abe Prinny at his shop at lunch-time, and he was still at the Yard at four o’clock. I don’t want to ask any favours of Bill Bristow, but I’d like to know if they’re holding Abe, and why.”

“Oke. Where shall I ring you?”

“At the flat or at Plender’s.”

“I shall probably call in person at Plender’s,” Chittering said, “he has a cellar which makes yours look like a leaky barrel.”

He opened the office door.

Mannering took his hat off a peg, and went out. Trevor was hovering near.

“Sorry it’s late, Trevor, but I must rush. Mr. Larraby isn’t back yet, is he?”

“No, sir.”

“Well, lock up, set the alarms, and then get off. Oh - telephone my wife and tell her I’m on the way, will you?”

“At once, sir,” promised Trevor. Far from being oppressed by staying later than usual, he was obviously glad to be entrusted with the task of locking up half a million pounds or so. He was conscientious to a degree, too. He Followed Mannering and Chittering to the door, and Mannering asked: “What did the girl say?”

“She didn’t say anything, just turned and went out,” said Trevor. “I can’t imagine it was anything very important.”

“That’s fine,” said Mannering.

The worst of London’s rush hour was over. Only a few cars were left in the bombed-site car park. Chittering, having refused a lift, had walked towards New Bond Street. Mannering opened the door of his car, and had a shock. It was a real shock, for he had actually turned the key in the lock - yet a man was sitting in the seat next to the driver’s. The light in the car was poor, but the man looked young and slim. Certainly he was ragged-looking, he needed a hair-cut, and he seemed young.

He was nursing a shiny, black-leather cosh.

It was made of pliable leather filled with lead-shot, guaranteed to kill if brought down heavily on the right spot; and capable of knocking out a man with the hardest skull, yet showing little in the way of a bruise. He held it in his left hand, and sat close against the door - as far as he could be away from Mannering.

Nervously?

Mannering hesitated, then slid into his seat. He turned the key in the ignition, started the engine, and let it warm up. He didn’t look at the youth or show any sign that he knew he was there. A car in front of his moved off, and he followed. Soon he was driving along narrow streets towards Piccadilly. Out here, the light was better, and sideways glances showed him the reddish hair, the silky stubble and the funny mouth.

Mannering turned into Piccadilly.

“Where can I drop you?” he asked.

The youth seemed to relax. He was grinning, but his hold on the cosh was still tight.

“I will say this for you,” he said, “you’re a cool card. You can drop me where you like, Mannering, and . . .;”

“When you speak to me,” said Mannering, in a voice which had the cutting edge of a carving knife, “you will say ‘Mr. Mannering’ or ‘sir’.” He slid the car into the kerb. “Get out.”

“Now look here . . .”

“I said get out.”

The youth moved the cosh and shifted his position so that he could use it. He looked half-scared, in spite of his weapon. He had a bruised chin, mouth and eye, as if he had been in a fight quite recently; his mouth looked particularly sore.

“Don’t you be so cocky,” he shrilled. “You’ll get what’s coming to you. What’s your price?”

“I told you to get out,” Mannering said softly.

“You keep still,” the youth ordered. “If I swipe you with this, it’ll break your jaw. You know what I’m talking about. What’s your price?”

Mannering didn’t speak, but looked at him levelly - and then gave him a sharp side-kick on the ankle. It hurt. Mannering grabbed a bony wrist, wrenched the cosh away, and brought it down sharply on the back of the youth’s head. The first blow was glancing and didn’t knock him out, but it scared him. Mannering grabbed his shoulder, pushed him round and struck again.

“Gug-gug-gug,” gasped the youth, and slumped back in his seat.

Mannering took out a whisky flask, poured some of this over the youth’s face, then turned the next corner, made a detour, and soon crossed Piccadilly. Not far from Dover Street Station there was a large hotel in a quiet square, an old-fashioned place, with much dark oak, red plush and brass which needed cleaning every morning. This was Bowing’s. A grey-clad commissionaire in a cockaded tip hat and a long coat and many medals, came to open the door.

“Thanks,” said Mannering, and smiled his brightest. “Hallo, Fred. Help me out with this chap, will you?” He put the cosh into the youth’s pocket, and opened the other door; the commissionaire, in tribute to his training and his self-control, said nothing. The smell of whisky was enough to make the average drinker thirsty.

They dragged the youth out.

“He is a friend of Mr. Ephraim Scoby, who is staying here,” said Mannering. “Deliver him with my compliments, will you?”

“I will, Mr. Mannering.”

“Thanks,” said Mannering, and two half-crowns changed hands. Another commissionaire arrived, to help out, and Mannering drove off.

He had not yet decided whether Ephraim Scoby believed he, Mannering, had the Fioras, or whether for some reason he wanted to persuade others that he had. At the moment, that was immaterial. What mattered was getting to the Chelsea flat; he would arrive at least half an hour late. Lorna would be harassed and on edge, and he couldn’t blame her. Lorna was a slave to punctuality; if there were a good fault, that was it.

Mannering had made up five minutes of the lost time when he turned into Green Street. He left the car outside the house, and hurried up the stairs two at a time. His flat was on the third and top floor, with Lorna’s attic studio above it.

The only way up was to walk.

He let himself in with a key.

“I think this will be him,” Lorna said to someone out of sight, and came into the hall. She didn’t look harassed, annoyed, reproving or dismayed. “Darling, Miss Pengelly has called and is very anxious to see you. You remember, she was at the party last night” Lorna’s tone and her expression told him that however much she regretted it, she knew that he ought to see Miss Pengelly, whom he did not remember from Adam. Or Eve. “She called at the shop, but you were in a hurry to get home.”

“Oh,” said Mannering, blankly. He approached the study door, which was ajar. Lorna was close to his side, and whispered: “It’s about Francesca, but don’t trust her an inch.”

“You see how dutiful I try to be,” Mannering added, and went into the study, a step behind Lorna.

It was the red-head with the enormous bust, the jade green eyes, the big mouth, pointed nose and sharp chin. She looked as if she had been squeezed and pushed into her yellow jumper as she sat in an armchair, head back, eyes narrowed so that they glinted brightly. She looked like a witch; or a woman who would sit and knit and gossip and laugh with glee while watching heads fell from the guillotine or bodies swinging from the gallows at Tower Hill.

Mannering’s greeting could not have been nicer had she been a beauty queen.

“Hallo, Miss Pengelly, I hope you’ve forgiven me. How can I help you?”

She kept him waiting for an answer. He didn’t force her, and Lorna also kept quiet.

“You can exchange the jewels for Joy Lessing,” she said at last.

Mannering did not respond to the shock of the challenge. Susan Pengelly was watching him with at least as much intentness as he was watching her. Bad she might be, even the Jezebel that she looked; but she wasn’t a fool, and she had said that with calculated purpose.

Lorna glanced at Mannering.

“Don’t tell me that you also come from Mr. Ephraim Scoby,” murmured Mannering. He moved away, still looking at her, until he reached a cocktail cabinet which fitted into a corner and was disguised as a fourteenth-century cupboard. “Can I get you a drink?”

“Thanks. A gin-and-Italian, please.”

“And you, darling?”

“I won’t have one now,” Lorna said. She was still badly shaken. “You know we mustn’t be too long.”

“Oh, yes.” Mannering poured out the gin, then added Italian vermouth from a bottle with a gaudy label, then a whisky-and-soda for himself. He handed the girl her drink. “Cheers.”

“Here’s to honest men,” said Susan, and tipped her drink down. “What name did you say?”

“Ephraim Scoby.”

“He sounds like something out of Dickens.”

“He comes from a far, far more unsavoury spot. Who gave you the idea that I have whatever jewels you’re talking about? What jewels are they, by the way?”