whether it’s always the outside job that it seems to be, but everything certainly points that way.”
Mannering pursed his lips.
“Supposing we run over some of the — er — jobs?” he suggested. “I could see your angle, and perhaps work better. I might as well do it thoroughly,” he added, with a smile, “if I’m going to do it at all.”
Old Bill was more pleased than ever. Mannering was intelligent enough to realise that the police angle was important; obviously he had no objection to learning, and he was certainly putting his best into the job. The detective warmed to the other man.
And Mannering warmed to the detective.
He had always heard that old Bill Bristow was popular, and he had been surprised to learn that the men who had been in prison for periods ranging from a month to seven years often had a good word for the sprucely dressed Inspector. He could understand why. Bristow did his job humanely; he treated a rogue as a man, and was always friendly.
Mannering was feeling sorry for Bristow too. It was the richest thing that the Baron could have conceived, and he enjoyed the next hour more than any he had spent for a long time. This meeting and arrangement, he knew, would give him the one thing he lacked — confidence when he was with other people connected with the robberies as Mannering and not Baron.
“First,” Bristow said, “you had best know we’re dubbing our man “the Baron”.”
Mannering frowned and asked the obvious “Why?”
He learned of the pawn-ticket and the things Bristow had discovered about the Baron’s activities; and he learned that Superintendent Lynch had first stopped talking of Baron, and added the “the”; for this Mannering was particularly grateful.
For an hour he went over with the policeman the various thefts that had taken place in houses visited by the Fauntley circle. He discovered just how much Bristow had done to find the thief. He learned the usual formalities, the regular system; and he could see where the routine work had been bound to fail to surmount the difficulties of the problem.
It was an illuminating conference. Mannering felt, as they finished and leaned back in their chairs, that he would be able to outwit Bristow in a dozen different ways. It was as perfect a joke as he had ever met, and the only thing which spoiled it was the fact that he was forced to keep it to himself.
Old Bill accepted a cigarette as he stopped talking.
“So you see,” he said, as two streams of smoke went towards the ceiling, “that you’ve a pretty stiff job on, Mr Mannering. Whenever possible you want to be near the lighting-switch.”
“I can manage,” said Mannering, with a smile.
“And yet be unobserved,” said Bristow.
“I could try,” murmured Mannering.
An unassuming fellow, thought Bristow.
“Is there any — er — place where you think there might be trouble in the near future?” Mannering put the question idly.
Bristow scowled at that.
“I’m not sure,” he said. “Of course, there’s the Overndon wedding . . .”
“H’m,” murmured Mannering.
“I will say one thing about the Americans,” said Bristow, “and that’s that they’re thorough. Er — you know about the affair?”
Mannering nodded. He had discovered, since Jimmy Randall’s visit that afternoon, that Marie Overndon was marrying Frank Wagnall, of the Brooklyn Wagnalls. Wagnall, with his parents and with several friends, was in London for the season — and a little longer than the season — and the high spot o; their visit now was the marriage. Mannering did not know the Wagnalls, but he had heard that they were reputed to be very rich.
What bitterness he had felt towards Marie had completely gone, although the effect of that month at Overndon Manor remained in part, of course. It had completely changed him, and it had started him in this mad game of chance. In many ways he was glad. There was something exhilarating in it, a zest he had never before experienced. The very fact of sitting in Bristow’s office discussing crimes which he himself had committed was more stimulating than any spirit.
But he did feel that Marie Overndon’s wedding would give him an excellent opportunity for a haul larger than anything he had made, excepting for the Rosa pearls; and there would be more than a little malicious pleasure in it.
He stopped reflecting as Bristow went on.
“Very thorough, like most Americans. This man Wagnall — the father, not the son — has asked us for a guard, and he’s using Dorman’s Agency too. The presents will be nearly as safe as the Grown Jewels.”
“Nearly?” questioned Mannering, easing himself in his chair,
Bristow scowled, and rubbed his chin.
“I’m not happy about the Baron,” he said. “He’s slick. We’ve got to admit that.”
Mannering nodded, and had difficulty in repressing the “thank you” that came to his lips.
“There’s one thing,” said Bristow more cheerfully, “which suggests that he won’t try anything at the wedding. He’s never tried anything big.”
“Yet,” said Mannering, and thought suddenly of Lorna Fauntley.
Bristow’s scowl returned.
