Meet The Baron

“Friend. At least, acquaintance. Do you know Old Bill at all?”

“Old Bill? . . .”

“Bristow,” said Plender, pushing cigarettes across his desk. “Obviously you don’t.”

“You mean the policeman ?” Mannering was surprised by the evenness of his voice. “The poor devil who’s handling the Kenton brooch job ?”

“The same,” chuckled Plender.

Mannering’s mind cleared suddenly. If Toby Plender knew anything he wouldn’t be talking like this, and that smile wouldn’t be in his eyes. Something had happened out of the ordinary, but it wasn’t anything which connected h m, Mannering, with the recent robberies; the relief made him feel almost light-headed, but he spoke casually enough.

“What’s he after?” he asked.

Plender chuckled again.

“An amateur detective,” he said. “He’s noticed that you and one or two others have always been present — nearly always, anyhow — when a job’s been done. Do you know what a “job” is?”

“I’ve an idea,” smiled Mannering. The truth was gradually dawning, the amazing, incredible truth.

“Well,” went on Plender, “Bristow’s got an idea that one of the servants is the culprit. He can’t follow the Fauntley crowd round the country — they do shift a bit. J. M. — and he wondered whether I thought you would care to keep an eye open.”

“Not me!” gasped Mannering.

Plender chuckled, and his chin nearly met his nose.

“Yes, he’s serious. He asked me — knowing that I know you well — whether I thought you’d jib at the idea. Apparently it’s entirely his own, without any official sanction, and he’s not sure whether you’ll take the suggestion nicely or whether you’re another Lady Kenton

“Eh?” asked Mannering bemusedly.

“In a manner of speaking,” said Plender. “Well — curse you, J. M.!” He broke off, and grinned, for Mannering was red in the face. His body was quivering, and he was pressing his hands against his sides, hard. For a full three minutes he sat back in his chair, heaving; it was one of those absurd, infectious laughs that stopped for a split second and then went on again. Plender grinned, chuckled, and started to laugh with his friend. The absurdity of it made his laugh convulsive.

“Oh — my — Lord!” gasped Mannering, as the convulsions subsided. “I’m sorry — Toby — but I just — saw the funny side of it! Oh — my — Lord!”

CHAPTER ELEVEN

MARIE OVERNDON’S WEDDING

“YOU QUITE APPRECIATE, MR MANNERING,” SAID DETECTIVE-Inspector William Bristow, “that it’s entirely an idea of my own. I hardly like to approach you, but the thefts are getting more frequent. The presence of regular men might act as a deterrent; I’d much rather catch the thieves red-handed, though. They won’t for a moment suspect you of working with the police.”

“They ?” queried John Mannering.

“He’s smart,” thought Bristow to himself. Aloud: “Yes, there may be more than one, I fancy, but I’ll admit I’m completely in the dark.” He chuckled, not entirely with humour. “The Press calls it “baffled”, and that isn’t far wrong.”

Mannering, sitting in the small office of the detective at Scotland Yard, lit a cigarette thoughtfully and flicked the match out of the open window. His expression was serious; mentally he was going through similar convulsions to those which had seized him in Toby Plender’s office two hours before. He had called at Scotland Yard, to discover that Bristow was only too pleased by the eagerness with which he proffered his help, and it was too early for him fully to appreciate the joke.

“It is a bit of a poser,” he admitted. “To tell you the truth. Inspector, I’ve been tempted to try my hand at solving it before, but I didn’t want to tread on any official corns.”

“I can relieve you of that worry,” said Bristow, feeling very cheerful. He had heard a great deal of John Mannering, and he was thinking that the rumours had not been exaggerated. Mannering was a distinguished man and an intelligent one. By saying that he had been tempted to try his own hand at solving the mystery of the thefts he had put the detective at his ease immediately. It would not be a case of doing a service for Bristow — and Bristow disliked being under an obligation to any man — it would be a matter of equal interests; by giving Mannering semi-official authority to make inquiries Bristow had pleased Mannering as much as Mannering had pleased him.

Bristow felt very satisfied with himself.

He was as worried as he had ever been by the continual thefts, for he was no nearer a solution of the mystery than he had been weeks before, and the idea of getting Mannering’s help had struck him as a brain-wave. Mannering was rich; Mannering was sound. Plender, one of the most respected and reputable solicitors, vouched for him. Bristow would no more have dreamed of suspecting Mannering of being the thief than he would have dreamed of suspecting that the Dowager Lady Kenton had stolen her own bauble.

“Yes,” repeated the detective, “you can do just what you like, Mr Mannering — within reason, that is — and I can assure you that you will get all the help I can give you.”

Mannering nodded thoughtfully, forcing back an absurd desire to guffaw.

“You’re absolutely at a loss?” he asked.

Bristow made no bones about it.

“Absolutely,” he confirmed. “I’ve tackled the servants, and all of them seem all right. I’ve been inclined to doubt