Shadow The Baron (5 page)

“Yes, Josh. The mail order angle is interesting, too. Tired of the jobs?”

“Not if you think it’s significant enough to follow up.”

“Sooner or later there will be fun with the Shadow,” said Mannering. “Keep an eye on the Buckley Street house for a few nights, and telephone me if they all go out. It might be worth looking round.”

“And could be a little risky, sir.”

Mannering laughed.

“I know you don’t regard risks as important, but is the Shadow worth it?” asked Larraby. “It isn’t your usual practice to.”

“Josh,” said Mannering, “the Shadow is a jewel thief and a good one. He’s been going the pace, but only on small stuff. He’s been building up to something bigger, and we’ll probably be very glad to know all we can about him. Right?”

“As you say,” murmured Larraby. “Is your projected Paris trip off, Mr. Mannering?”

“Sadly, yes. Mrs. Mannering’s mother is ill, and I’m a grass widower from now on. In fact there could hardly be a better time for the Buckley Street household to go out for a night, could there?”

“I’ll see what I can do, sir,” said Larraby, smiling.

At a quarter past eight on the following evening, Mannering sat drinking coffee and looking through a small selection of books on the paintings of Rubens. If he could see the print he wanted, he would know he’d made a find.

He was lost in the search when the telephone bell rang.

Mannering stretched out for it, his attention sharply focused as he heard Larraby’s voice.

“They’re out, sir, left in a taxi, five minutes ago.”

“Wonderful, I’ll be there as soon as I can. It’ll be the better part of an hour. Don’t expect to recognise me, and keep out of sight until I turn up. Will you be near that house that’s just being demolished?”

“Just inside the front doorway,” promised Larraby.

Mannering went into the bedroom, took out a makeup set and spread out everything he wanted to use, took off his suit and, with a towel round his shoulders, set to work. Nostalgia gripped him as he worked in the grease paint. He was back at the day when he had first learned the art of makeup. He worked slowly at first, then more swiftly. After twenty minutes he leaned forward in careful scrutiny.

The change was fantastic. He looked ten years older. No one who knew him would recognise him, even under the most critical examination; that was all he wanted, for tonight. To finish the change, he inserted rubber cheek pads and worked a thin rubber covering over his teeth, altering his whole expression. He put on an old suit, padded at the waist, to make him look fatter, packed tools in a belt that would roll up or go right round his waist, and put money and a torch into his pockets. That done, he slipped unobtrusively out of the flat, ambling towards King’s Road, took a bus to Victoria, and from there went to a lock-up garage where, in the name of Brown, he kept a powerful Buick.

Not only did he look a different man; he felt one.

He drove swiftly towards the Strand, left the Buick a hundred yards from Buckley Street, and walked the rest of the distance.

Number 13 was in darkness, but there were lights at the windows of the houses on either side.

The only street lamp was at the far end of the short street. There, a short flight of steps led to the lower level of Villiers Street and the Embankment. Just past the steps was a house in process of being demolished. He reached the steps, and glanced towards the house but saw no one.

He went nearer the doorway.

“All right, Josh,” he called.

There was no answer. The only sound was the traffic in nearby streets and, further away, the rumble of a train over Charing Cross Bridge. It was gloomy here, and gloomier inside the doorway of the house. He frowned as he went towards it, and stopped just outside.

“You there, Josh?”

There was no answer.

He put one hand in his pocket, and his fingers closed about the handle of a cosh. He gripped it tightly as he went nearer the doorway. If Larraby was there, he was within earshot; there was no legitimate reason why he shouldn’t answer.

Mannering reached the doorway, and whispered: “Josh.”

Silence met him.

He heard footsteps, and slipped quickly to one side, outside the shell of the building, but invisible from the street. A man and a woman walked briskly towards the steps, the woman talking; they clattered downward, the sound fading until there was only the muttering of traffic in the background and, nearer at hand, the sudden burst of a car engine starting up.

Mannering took out a torch, very gently playing the hooded beam.

“Josh,” he called, but in this last cry, he expected no answer. The night was cold – he shivered involuntarily. The beam of the torch shone on the rubble of bricks and mortar, and on a wheelbarrow, tilted on its side. The far wall of the house was still standing, but the roof was open to the skies. He half expected to see Larraby on the ground; if Larraby hadn’t been attacked, why wasn’t he here, answering?”

He turned round, slowly, not seeing what he feared.

A man struck at him from the other side of the doorway. The first blow caught him on the side of the head, the second under the chin. He sprawled back, without a chance to defend himself, then fell heavily.

Nearby, a man laughed.

The laughter had a sinister note; there was no humour in it. The sound pierced Mannering’s hazy consciousness. He tried to sit up, but a hand pressed against his shoulder and he was thrust heavily back. In the beam of a torch, he saw a pair of dusty shoes, quite near him.

“Don’t move,” a voice cautioned. “Just have a little rest.”

The laugh came again; sardonic, unpleasant.

Before the stillness had settled down into an uneasy vacuum in which is was possible to believe that any evil thing might fall, the slow throb of a car was heard. Mannering saw one of the shoes move.

“Get up,” the voice said.

Mannering struggled to his feet, and as he did so, his right hand was grabbed and held behind him.

“Forward,” the man ordered.

Outside, a taxi stood waiting, and near it a shadowy figure lurked in the doorway. Someone spoke, but Mannering didn’t catch the words. He was pushed roughly into the cab. A man climbed in after him, and the door slammed. Mannering, huddled in a corner, eased his arm gently. The cab moved off, and they passed beneath the light of the single street lamp. He didn’t catch more than a glimpse of his captor, whose hat was pulled low over his forehead, and whose chin and mouth were covered with a scarf; but he saw enough to note that the man was thin and rakish looking.

Something pressed into his side.

“That’s a gun,” the man said.

Mannering made no comment.

“At least you don’t talk too much. Who’s Josh?”

Mannering kept silent.

“But you’ve got to learn to talk enough,” the man said. He held his hand out “Cigarette?”

Mannering grunted: “No.”

“Pity,” the man said. “It’s doped – not enough to kill but enough to send you to sleep. I’ll have to fix you the hard way.” He laughed again – and next moment Mannering felt a sharp prick in his thigh. He felt the plunger forced home, and shivered. “If you behave yourself, you’ll live,” the man said. “Now just shut your eyes – when you wake up, you’ll get a nice surprise.”

Mannering saw the light, not bright, but enough to make him blink and to bring tears of pain to his eyes. He closed them quickly. Except for a slight pain in his right arm, he felt no ill effects of the encounter. He could think clearly; he recalled exactly what had happened up to the time he had felt sleep creeping over him, in the taxi.

No one moved or spoke.

After a few minutes, he opened his eyes and kept them open. He was in a small bedroom. In one corner was an old fashioned double bed, with round brass knobs at the posts. There was a washstand with a marble top, a chest of drawers and a curtained window, and two small chairs with wicker seats. He lay opposite the door, in a large armchair; at least it was comfortable. He was able to keep his eyes open without much strain, now, but apart from the poor furnishings, there was nothing to see.

Experimentally he got up, and was relieved to find that after a first rock or two he stood firm.

He moved to the door. Several feet away, he could see the shoddily fitted lock. He slipped his hand into his pocket for his knife, and it came out empty. Everything had been taken away, tools, money, even his loose change. He glanced about the room, but there was nothing he could use as a pick-lock.

He went back to the chair, and sat down.

His watch was gone too. He was glad it was unidentifiable. He stretched out his legs, and wished that he had a cigarette. Listening intently he could hear no sound about the house.

He went across to the window, and pulled aside the curtain. There were wooden shutters, fastened by iron brackets to the wall; there was no way in which he could open them, without tools.

He closed his eyes again, and began to think back over what had happened. The obvious reconstruction was likely to be the right one. Larraby had been seen watching, had been shanghaied. If he had undergone the same treatment at Mannering, Larraby was all right; for the time being.

Mannering’s mind worked restlessly. He could search the room, and perhaps find something with which to unpick the lock, but at this stage, he didn’t want to do that. Unless Josh had given his true identity away, and that wasn’t likely, there was no way in which these people could find out who he was.

It had happened at a good time, too. Lorna wouldn’t be waiting anxiously at home.

He heard a faint sound; as of metal on metal. He looked at the door through his lashes. There had been no footsteps; nothing to indicate that anyone was outside, but the sound was repeated. Then he saw the handle of the door turning. Immediately he lowered his eyelids. The door opened – and a man said in a quiet but normal voice: “He’s still out.”

“Just go and make sure,” said the voice of Mannering’s captor. “He may be foxing.”

“Not on your life.” The first man’s voice had a Midland accent with an overtone of Cockney. Mannering kept his eyes closed and his breathing even. He heard the others approach, and steeled himself for whatever test they were going to apply. He felt something touch his leg; next moment there was a sharp prick, as of a pin. He couldn’t stop himself from a slight reaction, but his face remained expressionless.

“Satisfied now?” asked the man with the Midland accent.

“You go downstairs,” the other said. “I’ll wait until he comes round.”

“Taking a chance, aren’t you?”

“Not with this.” The speaker sat on the bed, judging from the noise of groaning springs. Then there was the scrape of a match and a moment later, the smell of tobacco smoke. Springs creaked again; the man was probably lying on the bed. With infinite caution Mannering lifted his lids an eighth of an inch. The man was lying flat on his back, looking at him.

Mannering opened his eyes wider. The other was smiling, and it was easy to understand why he wasn’t liked. Even smiling, there was a mocking look about him. He had a long, thin face, and a well defined chin, and could be a type, Mannering thought, that was attractive to women. Lying there, he looked very tall.

“These aren’t doped,” he said.

“Thanks.” Mannering didn’t get up.

The man took out a cardboard carton of cigarettes and tossed them across; they fell on to Mannering’s lap. A box of matches followed.

“Thanks,” said Mannering again. He lit a cigarette and tossed both matches and packet back. His voice was hoarse, the word had been little more than a croak. He was silently rehearsing the way to talk in a low pitched voice unlike his own. It was a long time since he had found a use for an assumed voice.

“Still not talkative, I see.”

“No.”

“You’ll learn. Before you leave here, I’m going to find out who you are. And if necessary, I’ll make your boyfriend wish he hadn’t been foolish enough to work for you. Why were you watching me?”

Mannering said: “I was” and then broke off.

The other swung his legs off the bed and came across, put his hand beneath Mannering’s chin, and forced his head up. From that angle, the lean face had an almost savage look; this man could be merciless.

His voice was gentle but there was menace in it.

“Listen, mister, I’m serious. I can wipe that greasepaint off and take a pretty picture of you, and that won’t help you to keep yourself anonymous. Even if you’re stubborn, it won’t help. But I don’t want to hurt you for the sake of it. What were you doing?”

Mannering licked his lips.

“I thought –”

“Go on, get it out.”

“I thought it would be an easy job.”

“What would?”

“Breaking in.”

“What did you want from my place?”

Mannering said: “I had a van coming; we could have cleared you out. Always got a ready market for electrical stuff.” He licked his lips again. Pretending to be nervous helped him to put over the assumed voice; helped also to make the “confession” sound convincing.

The man stood back, the sardonic twist of his lips more pronounced than ever.

“Why didn’t you tell me the first time?”

“Pretty obvious, isn’t it?”

“Did you think I’d turn you over to the police?”

“Aren’t you –” Mannering leaned forward, and allowed a hopeful calculation to creep into his eyes. “Aren’t you going to? I won’t try the job again, I’ll keep away, you won’t have to worry.”

“That’s right,” the other said. “You’ll have to do the worrying. Tell me all about yourself, mister – what kind of job you do, how long you’ve been at it, how many friends are in your racket. Just a potted autobiography and be quick about it.”

He went back to the bed and sat down, waiting expectantly.

The great danger would come from Larraby. If he were forced to talk, his story would be different from anything Mannering said. Larraby would talk only under great pressure, but though the man here had used the kid gloves so far, there was no guarantee he would continue to do so.