John Creasey - Meet The Baron Страница 2

“Ah!” said John Mannering, smiling.

“Ah, yourself!” snapped Randall. “You’ve run through fifteen thousand pounds in the past twelve months . . .”

“Where did you get that information from?” demanded Mannering quickly.

Randall laughed, and left his chair in front of the log-fire. The two men had been talking for half an hour on the subject of Mannering’s activities during the past year. Randall had been pleading, angry and disgusted in turn, but until that moment Mannering had displayed a faint amusement, punctured with a cynicism or an occasional “Ah!” The mention of the money quickened his interest. Randall decided that achievement alone merited a drink, and he was smiling as he poured it.

Mannering sniffed the brandy, gazing thoughtfully at his friend as he cupped the glass.

“Good stuff,” he admitted. “But who told you of the fifteen thousand, Jimmy ?”

Randall sipped and inhaled the brandy, and then scowled at Mannering’s question — but he discussed the brandy first.

“Not so good as the Denie Mourice ‘75, and I’ve bought two cases, drat it. Toby Plender told me.”

“H’m,” murmured Mannering, holding his glass away from him and flicking it with his forefinger. “So you held a post-mortem before reading the Riot Act, did you?”

“Stop using that glass like a tuning-fork,” said Randall irritably. “Yes, we held a post-mortem, if you want it like that. You’re like a kid acting the goat . . .”

“Well said!” Mannering laughed. “You’ll go a long way before you crack a better one than that.”

Randall didn’t smile.

“That’s right, be bright. I’m telling you . . .”

“For the sixth time!”

“That you’re making a fool of yourself, and that all of Somerset and half of London is sharing the joke. Damn it, John — even the Continental’s taking you up. I was there last night . . .”

“Low music hall,” said Mannering sadly, “reflecting low taste. How did they work me in?”

“Mimi Rayford came on,” said Randall, with a sudden grin, “and the dummy in the stalls bellowed, “Mannering’s latest”. I . . .”

Mannering laughed, until the brandy spilt over the edge of his glass. Randall’s grin widened reluctantly.

“It was good,” he admitted.

“It was wrong,” said Mannering, recovering himself. “Mimi and I quarrelled two nights ago, and she had a smack at me. Never expect a fair dividend from a woman, Jimmy, however much you invest in her.”

Randall’s scowl came back.

“I haven’t seen the paper to-day,” he said, “but the gossip-columns will have it all right,” He looked hard at his friend, at those hazel eyes which could be humorous, lazy, quizzical, and mischievous in turn, but were now sardonic. “Why not drop it, John ? You had a bad break, I know, but not bad enough to — to squander every darned penny you’ve got on a crowd of gold-diggers.”

“That phrase went out with the flood,” said Mannering. “So because I told you and Toby Plender I was worth twenty thousand some time ago, you both think I’m approaching my limit, and you exhume me and read the Riot Act.”

“It is a tiling that worries us both a darned sight more than you seem to understand,” said Randall, with real seriousness. Damn it, neither Toby nor I want to see you go under.”

Mannering’s eyes twinkled, and he nodded.

“I know,” he said, “but what can you do with a man who’s tried the cure and found it doesn’t take ? You’ll only worry yourselves grey . . .”

“About you ?” asked Randall coldly.

“Oh, no. About the failure of your efforts to put me on the right path. And that reminds me, Jimmy, you’ve forgotten the racing and the boxing . . .”

“Forgotten nothing,” snapped Randall. “The only thing you haven’t sunk your money on during this last year is beer . . .”

“Make it alcohol in general,” murmured Mannering.

“And when you’re down to your last pound or so,” said Randall, “you’ll start that. For the last time — will you drop it?”

There was silence for a moment. Mannering’s eyes held his friend’s. He had known Randall for twenty years, through the hot enthusiasm of school-days, the blast years of Cambridge, the recklessness that had followed, and the calmer days of the past five years. He understood Randall; he understood the other member of the trio of friends, Toby Plender, who was also in London; but he did not understand himself, as he answered slowly: “No, Jimmy. Sorry. I’ve set my course, and I’ll stick to it. If I’m blown off it” — he shrugged his shoulders and grinned, that old, cheerful grin — “I’ll find another.”

“You’re a fool,” said Randall.

“We’ll celebrate a mutual understanding in a spot more brandy,” said Mannering.

Although he left Randall on that inconsequential note, Mannering was by no means pleased to learn that his friends were taking so close an interest in him. He felt that he wanted to do exactly as he liked, and the thought of interference annoyed him. On the other hand, he had the good sense to realise that neither Randall nor Plender would act — or talk — without the best of motives, and he did not propose to allow the affair to affect a friendship that had weathered many storms.

If his feeling of irritation left him as he walked towards the City — and Plender’s office — he did not intend to let Plender get away with the thing without some protest. True, it could hardly be called a breach of confidence that the solicitor had told Randall how low Mannering’s finances were, for the three of them had known for a long time most that there was to know about one another, while Plender could say to Randall things that he could say to no other man on earth.

He reached the solicitor’s office, and was taken to the junior partner’s room immediately. As the door closed, and before he sat down, he smiled sardonically at his friend.

“I’d like to know,” he said, with a show of annoyance not altogether discounted by the smile in his eyes, “whether you call yourself a solicitor or a talking parrot ? I suppose you didn’t tell Mimi Rayford that I was down to my last five thousand, did you ?”

“Never heard of Mimi Rayford,” said Toby Plender equably.

“Nor Jimmy Randall ?”

“That,” said Toby, pressing the tips of his fingers together, “was between friends.” He grinned, and pushed a box of cigarettes across the desk. “Well, what’s your trouble?”

“I’m going to change my solicitor,” said Mannering, put ting his hat and stick on the desk and clearing a corner for his feet. “Mind if I sit down ?”

Plender surveyed the size-ten shoes resting on his desk, shifted his gaze to Mannering’s quizzing eyes, and grinned.

“So you’re rattled enough to think of changing your solicitor?”

“Rattled, no. Careful, yes,” said Mannering. “And when I say change I mean cancel out entirely. Solicitors seem to me too solicitous.”

“H’m,” said Plender, “h’m. So you’re taking the last five thousand, are you ?”

“Yes, and putting it in a bank. It’s nice to feel you have my welfare at heart, Toby, but it’s a strain being the victim of good intentions.”

“I thought it would do it,” said Plender, half to himself. He was a small man, faultlessly dressed, with a hooked nose, a Punch of a chin, and a pair of disconcertingly direct grey eyes. At thirty-five Toby Plender had a reputation for being the smartest criminal lawyer in London, and he coupled this with the fact that he was nearly bald. His humour was dry when it was not caustic, and he shared with Jimmy Randall a regard for John Mannering and a growing concern for their friend’s recent activities.

“You thought it would do what?” asked Mannering.

“Make you think,” said Plender. “It’s time you did, John; time you thought hard, and stopped chucking away your cash.”

“D’you know,” said Mannering, “you and Jimmy should sing duets together — you both harp so on ancient ditties. Toby

Plender’s eyes were hard; he was taking this thing seriously, and Mannering’s flippancy annoyed him.

“Well?”

“Don’t try to reform me. I’ve had the itch for gambling since I was so high, and it’s been part of my make-up all the time, even though I kept it down for a while. So . . .”

“Supposing she’d married you ?” asked Plender.

“Supposing the dead could speak? They can’t. She didn’t. Have I made myself clear?”

Toby Plender nodded, and slid his hands into his pockets.

“Yes,” he said. “You’re a fool — and you deserve all you get.”

“Without trimmings,” said Mannering. That’s what Jimmy said. To make a start, I’ll have one of your cigarettes.”

He smiled, and Plender followed suit, a little reluctantly. He realised that Mannering had set his course and was not prepared to alter it.

“Any time I can keep you out of the divorce courts,” said the solicitor, watching the other take his feet from the desk, “let me know. You stopped just in time with Mimi.”

“And you said you’d never heard of her,” said Mannering sorrowfully. “Shall I tell you something, Toby?”

“Providing you remember my fee for an opinion is six-and-eightpence.”

“Too heavy by far,” riposted Mannering. “Well — Mimi’s husband hadn’t got a case. Nor have any of them. I thought I’d tell you, to ease your mind. Pass it on to Jimmy, will you?”

Mannering told himself as he walked back to the Elan — even now he walked whenever possible, for he was essentially athletic, and fitness was almost an obsession with him — that he had cleared the air a great deal, and that on the whole Toby had taken it well. One thing was certain: no one in the world would know the state of his bank-balance, and it would be easy enough, if he so chose, to create the impression that he was making money. There were many ways of making it, although, in his experience, most of those methods were more likely to have the opposite effect.

There was no reason in his mind, just then, for the move. He was not even playing with the idea that was to seize him very soon with a force that he could not resist. Afterwards it seemed to him that the thing was forming even before he was conscious of it. He felt desperate — and he wanted to gamble; what the gamble was like didn’t matter, provided the stakes were high.

Well — he had five thousand pounds, and while any of it remained he did not propose to alter what Toby would have called “his ways”. He felt pleased at the step he had taken, even if he did not realise its far-reaching effect.

10.30 a.m. Sam, clerk to Billy Tricker, turf-accountant, lifted the telephone to his ear and gave his employer’s name wearily.

“Mannering,” said the man at the other end of the wire. “A hundred Blackjack, at sevens, to win . . .”

“Can’t do it. Sixes.”

“All right, sixes. Double any to come with Feodora, at fives.”

“She’s up — sixes too. The lot?”

“Yes,” said Mannering.

“O.K.,” said Sam, and wearily summarised: “One hundred on Blackjack, 2.30, Lingfield, to win; any to come Feodora, 4 o’clock. Both sixes. Thanks, Mr M.”

11.30 a.m. “Yes, Mr Mannering, I’ve several of your cards. Just a moment, Mr Mannering, I’ll make a note . . .”

Florette, florist of Bond Street, pulled an order-pad towards her. She repeated Mannering’s order in an expressionless voice, but there was a smile on her lips, for in the past twelve months she had taken similar instructions from Mannering so many times that she was beginning to see the funny side of it.

“Four white roses — four dozen, I beg your pardon — to Miss Alice Vavasour, at 7 Queen’s Gate, and two dozen red carnations to Miss Madaline Sayer, at the Lenville Theatre. Yes, Mr Mannering; thank you, Mr Mannering.”

12.30 p.m. “But I really can’t, John; I’m rehearsing this afternoon, and I’ve two shows to-morrow — idiot !”

“Did I hear the renowned Miss Vavasour say “idiot”?” asked Mannering.

“Only over the telephone. No, I can’t. I’ll see you in the dressing-room. John, be a darling. Yes, lunch and tea the day after to-morrow. And, darling, the roses were exquisite, but you shouldn’t. . . . Idiot, how could I help it? You’ll try and come round to-night?”

1.30 p.m. “They call this place,” said Mannering, “the Ritz, and you told me that you would meet me here at one o’clock. Explain, sweet Adeline, how that meant one-thirty.”

“A woman’s privilege to be late,” said Madaline Sayer, “and if you call me Adeline again I’ll scratch your face.”

“It’s no woman’s privilege,” said Mannering, “to give me indigestion. That’s our table. And Adeline’s a nicer name than Madaline; more popular too.”

Madaline Sayer laughed. She was a little woman with a pink-and-white fluffiness that passed for loveliness, and a genuine contralto that made her a popular star at the Lenville. On that day she was at peace with the world, for it was no mean achievement to take John Mannering from Mimi Rayford. Between Mimi of the Continental and Madaline of the Lenville there existed a rivalry in most things, especially the conquest of man. Conquest of John Mannering, Madaline knew, could only be temporary, but to get him direct from Mimi was just too ravishing.

“You’re a brute,” she said. “What’s this about indigestion? Ooo! John, look at the thing inside that frock . . .”

“I’ve to be at Lingfield at three-fifteen,” said Mannering, glancing idly at a debutante in a floral creation which had excited his companion’s envy and admiration, “which means that I must be away by two.”

“John! I thought we were going to have the whole afternoon. There’s that divine house-boat I’m longing to rent this summer . . .”

She pouted, while Mannering ordered lunch, and was still pouting when he laughed at her. The gleam of his teeth against his dark skin seemed to stab her. She looked round the room, and a dozen pairs of eyes turned quickly away, eyes directed at Mannering, not at her. She must play her cards carefully with him. He was as rich as Colossus, they said — or was it Croesus ? — and he was certainly the most exciting man in London. Someone had compared his smile with Rollson’s, but Rolly wasn’t in it.

She stopped pouting, and tapped his ankle gently beneath the table.

“Well, if you must I suppose you must. Couldn’t I. . .”

Her eyes sparkled, and her lips opened slightly in carefully simulated expectation. Mannering chuckled.

“My dear, you look adorable, but I’m going alone. And if we talk too much my digestion’s ruined.”

“Serve you right,” she snapped. She was angry for a moment, and her prettiness was spoiled. “You’ll never get to Lingfield in time, anyhow.”

“I’m flying from Croydon.”

“Trust you.”