The Baron Comes Back, page 1
Copyright & Information
The Baron Comes Back
First published in 1943
© John Creasey Literary Management Ltd.; House of Stratus 1943-2014
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
0755135245 9780755135240 Print
0755138589 9780755138586 Kindle
075513690X 9780755136902 Epub
0755145410 9780755145416 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
Visitor By Night
The front door bell of John Mannering’s flat rang sharply.
Mannering stirred in his sleep, then opened his eyes, keeping quite still. Before he had grown accustomed to the gloom the bell rang again.
He pushed back the clothes and groped for his dressing-gown, shivering in the keen night air. The caller rang impatiently for the third time with a note of urgency which found no echo in Mannering’s mind.
He pulled his bedroom door to and switched on the light in the lounge. The hands of the clock pointed to nearly three. His irritation and annoyance faded in a quick onrush of anxiety lest the caller heralded trouble or bad news.
‘It can’t be Lorna.’ He spoke audibly. ‘She wasn’t home until one, nothing can have happened there.’ Hearing his own voice did not convince him as he opened the front door.
The door was pushed heavily against him, as a vague figure impelled itself into the room. A hoarse voice implored: ‘Shut ze door, zey must not know I am here!’ The voice was foreign, reflecting its owner’s fear, the man’s breathing laboured and heavy.
Mannering closed the door quietly, while the caller moved on to the lounge without a by-your-leave. All Mannering saw of him was a black Homburg hat, a dark coat, and a glimpse of a pale face. He could hear the man’s breathing clearly, and waited for a few seconds while his own grew steady.
The visitor was standing in front of the fireplace, his narrow shoulders on a level with the mantelpiece. Sharp, pallid features turned towards Mannering, heavy-lidded eyes gazed at him, wide in alarm and anxiety.
In his right hand he clutched a brief-case.
‘Close ze door, please! Zey might see!’ The man stopped abruptly, watching each of Mannering’s movements closely. He relaxed as the door closed, and pushed back his hat; his forehead was high and pale, except for a red line where the hat had pressed too tightly.
‘You are John Mannering?’ His clutch on the brief-case tightened, suspicion borne of doubt showed in the watchful eyes.
‘Yes, I’m Mannering.’ Mannering studied the other more closely, seeing lines of privation and hardship grooving the pallid face, perspiration beading the long, pendulous upper lip and pale forehead. ‘I’m wondering whether I should know you,’ Mannering went on. He had recovered from surprise but was growing puzzled, more than a little anxious.
‘No, no, you do not. It is possible that you ‘ave heard of me. Champbourcy, Phillipe Champbourcy, of Paris. Once I had a shop in London but you would not know that. M’sieu Mannering, I call on an urgent matter, my life and that of another is at stake. I appeal to you for help, I implore you to give it. To you it will be nothing, to me all the world. Please!’
A fragmentary memory passed through Mannering’s mind of Champbourcy et Cie, Dealers in Precious Stones, Paris. It was a glimpse of years before the war, reminding him how completely the days of peace and their associations had faded. It was a shock to find this man had come to see him about jewels, or because he knew of Mannering’s interest in gems. That interest, like many others, had been asleep since Mannering had entered the Army.
‘Presuming I’m prepared to help you,’ Mannering said, ‘how can I, M’sieu?’ He was wide awake and wary then, more than a little suspicious.
‘I do not ask it for nothing! I offer ten times the money I ask. A thousand pounds, M’sieu Mannering, a thousand pounds for—this!’ Champbourcy had been fumbling with the brief-case, pulling it open and extracting a smaller one of Morocco leather. He held it high above his head as if that would encourage Mannering to approach and reach for it.
Mannering frowned as he returned the man’s tense gaze.
‘Supposing you’re a little less dramatic,’ he suggested. ‘I’m not used to being called on for a thousand pounds in the middle of the night. What have you there?’
‘You need to ask!’ exclaimed Champbourcy. ‘Come, I will show you. For my manner I offer apologies, M’sieu, I am a hunted man, I know no peace. But I come to talk of this gem of untold value. Ten times what I ask? I joke! Twenty, thirty times ten thousand, and that would not be enough.’ His long, sensitive fingers trembled as he fumbled with the catch.
The case opened.
Glittering and scintillating under the electric light was a single pear-shaped diamond. A glimpse made Mannering draw in his breath. Beauty beyond compare winked a multi-coloured fire.
The following silence was broken by the Frenchman’s high-pitched: ‘I do not lie, M’sieu. For that I ask one thousand pounds, then it is yours, I ask no more except—’ He paused, drew back a pace and added: ‘Except that you demand no explanations, ask me no questions.’
Mannering said: ‘Let me look at it.’
Reluctantly Champbourcy allowed the diamond out of his grasp, wincing as Mannering carried it nearer the light. After a close inspection Mannering’s suspicions grew confused; the jewel had gone to his head like strong wine.
Champbourcy demanded harshly: ‘You will do it for me?’
‘No,’ said Mannering thoughtfully. ‘I won’t buy it, but—’
‘M’sieu, do not refuse me! You doubt the honesty of the stone. Give me time and I will prove my right to it, I will sign that I have sold it to you freely and without coercion. There are two others like it, just two others. M’sieu – it is yours for eight hundred pounds! You would not rob me, you would not try to take further advantage of my need.’
Mannering said abruptly: ‘I’ll lend you a thousand against it as security, Champbourcy. I can’t afford to buy it at its value, and I won’t take it at a lower figure.’
Champbourcy gasped: ‘You will lend me the money?, Here? Now? M’sieu, I cannot thank you enough. I am on my knees to you! I did not dare to hope of such munificence! But it must be quick, M’sieu, I need the money most urgently. Please, you have it here?’
‘I haven’t a thousand pounds. You can have a hundred and the rest as a cheque, or the lot in cash after ten o’clock in the morning.’ Mannering spoke musingly, eyeing the diamond and not the Frenchman’s eager face.
‘By ten o’clock, M’sieu, it might be in time, but it could be too late. And until I have the money I dare not leave here! M’sieu, you would not trick me?’
Mannering smiled, his firm white teeth showing very white against his browned skin.
‘Would you have come if you’d thought that?’ he countered.
‘No, M’sieu, but … can one always rely on information from those one considers friends?’ A note of melancholy sounded in Champbourcy’s voice, mingling with one of resignation. ‘I am so tired, M’sieu, and so weary. Yet I am divided in my mind. She waits for news from me, the time will pass slowly and agonisingly for her.’
‘Should I know her, too?’ Mannering asked sardonically.
‘M’sieu, it was understood that you should ask no questions. She depends on me, and has my word that I shall help her. But there are times when it appears to need a man more powerful, more capable, than I. If only there was one to whom I could turn, M’sieu.’ He eyed Mannering covertly, unable to keep an eager, almost cunning glint out of his eyes.
Mannering leaned back against a table, thinking that Champbourcy’s concern had been too deep to be wholly assumed. Probably in relaxing his mind had moved from one problem to another, one hope to a second.
Mannering felt at once wary and intrigued, for the other had volunteered no piece of information which might help to explain. His fear for himself and for the unnamed woman was not feigned, although it had been eased by Mannering’s offer.
Mannering put the diamond on a nearby table. He spoke casually: ‘I might find you a helper if I knew what you wanted.’
‘M’sieu, you think that possible?’
‘It wouldn’t be easy, but there are several men who are looking for gems and would pay a fair price. I could get in touch with them for you.’
‘No, M’sieu, no! You do not comprehend the situation!’
Mannering said sharply: ‘Who sent you to me, Champbourcy? And why?’ The casualness of his manner had gone, the impression of being only half awake. ‘We’ve had enough nonsense, just what do you want?’
‘But M’sieu!’ The Frenchman gaped. ‘I have told you, in the goodness of your heart you have promised to help me.’
‘In the goodness of my heart I’ve promised to lend a thousand pounds on a stone I could sell tomorrow for twenty thousand,’ Mannering said coldly. ‘We’ll call it my good deed for the night. You’ve told me that you’re afraid of being followed, that a woman is in danger, and that you daren’t sell the diamond in the open. What am I to make of that? Why haven’t you been to the police?’
‘M’sieu, we do not understand one another,’ said Champbourcy snatching at a pretence of wounded dignity. ‘It was agreed that you should ask no questions on my assurance that I have every right to the diamond.’
‘Nevertheless I think the police should know about this, for your sake and the woman’s.’
Mannering turned to the telephone, but Champbourcy took four quick steps towards him, gripping his arm and pulling him from the instrument.
‘No, you must not! It would be fatal. You—you would not go to the police, M’sieu Mannering, of all people you are the last to do that!’
Mannering felt a sudden weight of depression on his mind, a quick animosity towards Champbourcy. The hint was too obvious to miss, the inference deep and ominous.
‘And why am I?’ he asked coldly.
‘M’sieu, you do not need to ask that question—’
‘I’m asking it,’ Mannering insisted. ‘I’ve asked you who told you to come to me, Champbourcy, and I’ll have an answer or call the police.’
‘It—it was a friend, M’sieu.’
Mannering pulled his arm away and lifted the telephone. Champbourcy drew a long, quivering breath.
‘I will tell you, M’sieu! It was Gironde, also of Paris, your very good friend. He has told me that you are the Baron, he advises me that you can be relied upon for all things. Also he told me that you would not wish to hear what he had said, that you would be angry at my knowledge. Remember, please, that you forced me to tell you.’
Mannering said coldly: ‘Get this quite clear: I am not the Baron. If you came here expecting me to help you in dealing with stolen gems you’ve made a big mistake.’
‘You—you are not the Baron!’ Champbourcy gasped. ‘It is incredible, M’sieu, Gironde would not lie to me.’
‘He has.’ Mannering sat on the arm of a chair, hard-eyed. ‘Now let’s have the truth, Champbourcy, that you put up that absurd act solely to try to get me interested. I don’t believe in your mythical woman and I don’t believe you’re scared. Moreover, I doubt whether you’ve any right to the stone. Your story might have appealed to the Baron, it certainly does not interest me.’
About Champbourcy’s figure there was a strange dignity, in his voice a note of deeper sincerity.
‘I can understand your anger, M’sieu. I am appalled by my mistake. But my story is true. The stone is one of three, the Three Tears of Antoinette. Surely you have heard of them?’
Mannering said: ‘I recognised the stone, yes. Durand had the three, in Paris.’
‘That is so. This one belonged to Durand, M’sieu Mannering. He is dead, killed because he would not be loyal to Petain, and his authority was too great for him to be left alive. Before he died, M’sieu, he charged me with the mission more important to him than his own life, that of securing the safety of his daughter. It is she who is in danger now, she who authorises me to sell this gem.’
‘Is she in London?’
‘Of course, M’sieu, I come from her. I am afraid that I may have been seen leaving the hotel where she is staying. I was followed, that is an undoubted fact. You see, M’sieu, from France I brought not only Mam’selle Lucille but also much of M’sieu Durand’s Collection. I was helped to smuggle it into the country, and that is a great offence. Now I am told that the price for bringing Mam’selle and myself to England is the Collection, of value almost too great to comprehend. But we are penniless except for the jewels, we have not even the money to pay for the hotel. So it became necessary to sell a piece of the Collection, but’—Champbourcy shrugged his shoulders—‘no jeweller, no merchant, would fail to recognise the pieces, it was necessary to find a man who would buy and not ask questions. Gironde told me that you, the Baron, would be such a man. That is the truth, M’sieu.’
‘What do you plan to do?’ Mannering asked.
‘With money, M’sieu, I believe that I can arrange for Mam’selle Lucille to go to America. She will be safer there. You understand that I have information about a way in which she can travel, of a ship which is leaving for America shortly and on which a passenger will be accepted, with no questions asked. But it is urgent; until she is safely from the country she will be in danger, just as I am. To ask for the protection of the police is to explain that the Durand Collection is in this country, and was smuggled in. And also’—Champbourcy drew a sharp breath—‘I am told that it will be known if I go to the police, that neither myself nor Mam’selle will remain alive for long.’
Mannering frowned. ‘When did you eat last, Champbourcy?’
‘Some hours back.’
‘You’ll feel better after some food,’ Mannering said, ‘and we can talk more. Come into the kitchen, it’s warmer.’
He led the way to the small kitchen of the flat, setting a bewildered Champbourcy to work filling the kettle and lifting cups and saucers from the cupboard, while he cut bread, found cheese and a tin of soup. He heated the latter in a saucepan, watching Champbourcy trying to conceal the eagerness with which he ate. Little was said until the impromptu meal was nearly over.
‘Gironde may have been mistaken about you, M’sieu, in as far as you are not the Baron,’ Champbourcy said, ‘but he was right in other ways, he told me that I could rely on you for help and kindness. My gratitude is too great for full expression.’ He paused. ‘But you have been thinking. Tell me of what, please.’
Mannering said: ‘I can get you the money for tomorrow, and you could take your chance. I don’t advise it. Telling the full story to the police wouldn’t lead to serious trouble, and if you had to pay to bring the Collection into the country it wouldn’t make a vital difference. You’d have nothing else to fear.’
‘But you forget Baptiste, M’sieu.’
‘Is Baptiste the man who brought you from France?’
‘And who makes his demands, yes. I do not exaggerate, I am terrified of Baptiste, and I speak also for Lucille. He is a powerful man, and indescribably evil. But for him I would agree with you that it would be wise to tell the authorities. But I am not the one who can decide. Mam’selle Lucille must be consulted first.’
Mannering was pouring tea as he said: ‘I’d like to see her.’
‘You, M’sieu!’ The Frenchman started. ‘Of course, you wish for confirmation of what I say. I will take you, and—but no, I cannot do that. I cannot return to the hotel tonight. There will be men outside, watching for me, I can evade them, M’sieu, but I must take my time and must not return straight to the hotel. The problem is difficult. I am bewildered and tired, I confess. Will you not take my word?’
