Meet The Baron

that might transpire — away from Bristow too, if it could be managed.

“Yes,” went on the policeman. “The blue mask was reported . . .”

“Blue mask?” Mannering frowned, and thought uncomfortably that the mask was within three yards of Bristow. “I don’t remember that . . .”

“I don’t think I ever mentioned it,” said Bristow. “One of the regulars who admitted teaching the Baron spoke of the blue mask. But that’s by the way. It’s one of his jobs all right, because ether gas was used, and” — Bristow was very grim as he went on — “I’ve had a dose of that from the gentleman. That was the only time I met him face-to- face.”

Mannering’s fears collapsed like a pricked balloon, and in their place came real exhilaration. The sudden laughter in his eyes looked like eagerness as he leaned forward.

“You’ve actually met him and never told me? You’re a close dog, Bristow!”

Bristow grunted, hardly knowing whether to be pleased or offended. He decided on the former.

“I wouldn’t recognise him again,” he said, looking absently round the room. “But that’s by the way, too. I came along” — he laughed a little and coloured — “because I thought a chat with you would do me good, Mannering. The A.C. will be short-tempered again, and I thought . . .”

Bristow stopped, and the pleasant expression went from his face. In that moment Mannering’s fears returned, only to lose themselves in anxiety for Lorna. That second place . . .

But the detective’s voice was very hard, and a warning that something had gone wrong ticked through Mannering’s mind.

“You’ve read about the business, of course?”

Mannering tried to assume that the other was evading the matter of the two places at the table. He nodded, and wished Bristow would stop looking. For the detective was still staring at the one spot, and there was an expression on his face that puzzled the cracksman.

“He was surprised by a watchman, wasn’t he?” he asked with a big effort. “There was some shooting . . .”

“There was one shot,” said Detective-Inspector Bristow in a curiously stilted voice. “It was from a Webley thirty-two, Mannering, and we can’t find the bullet. The obvious solution to that little problem is that it lodged in the Baron.”

“Yes,” said Mannering, and his mouth was dry. Bristow was dangerously near the truth now.

“So we think,” said Bristow.

He was still staring at the table. Mannering felt that he must make some comment, or some move, that would cause the detective to shift his gaze. Bristow wasn’t being discreet. He needn’t make it so pointed that he’d seen the two places.

Of course, thought Mannering, I’m all on edge, or I probably wouldn’t have noticed anything. But he is staring, there’s no doubt about it. Why?

He moved in his chair abruptly, and at last Bristow’s gaze shifted. Mannering, jerking his shoulder suddenly, winced with pain, and started to move his left hand towards the wound. He stopped quickly, but Bristow saw it.

“Hurt yourself?” asked the Inspector. His voice seemed a thousand miles away, as though he was in a world of his own.

“Slipped last night at the Ramon Ball,” said Mannering, with a short laugh. He was very wary, very much afraid. It almost seemed that Bristow knew something; the man was getting at him.

“At the Ramon Ball, eh ?” said Bristow. He still seemed a long way off, and his expression was certainly strained, almost incredulous. “Er — it wasn’t that which hurt you, was it?”

“That?” Mannering echoed the word, and turned round.

And then the colour drained from his face. He realised now that Bristow had not been looking at the second place at the table after all. He had been looking at the bullet, which was lying next to the morning paper!

“It looks like a Webley three-two,” said Bristow, like a man in a dream. “Let me see it, Mannering . . .”

The door of the bedroom was not quite closed, and Lorna Faundey could see the spruce figure of Bristow as he sat opposite Mannering. She was glad that she had seen the detective before and could recognise him, for it enabled her to judge the position at a glance.

She could estimate the peril of that visit.

Mannering was not at his best. He had suffered considerably from loss of blood, and although his recovery had been speedy, and he had shown little sign of his overnight ordeal, the fact remained that he was less likely to be able to outwit the detective than if he had been uninjured. For a few moments Lorna felt really afraid. She knew nothing of the co-operation between Mannering and the police, and she could conceive of no reason for the early- morning visit, excepting a connection with the burglary at the Ramons; house. Her heart was beating as she stared tensely through the narrow opening of the door.

Alter a few seconds she breathed more easily. She could see that Bristow was friendly, and that Mannering was not perturbed. The conversation between the two men came to her ears. She realised for the first time that Mannering had been helping the detective, and the realisation made her eyes dance. It was a situation that Mannering would use to perfection, and that few other men would have dared to try.

Satisfied that there was no need for alarm, she turned back into the bedroom. She looked rather sad and rather weary for a moment, very much as she had looked just before Bristow had entered the flat. She thought, with a wry smile, that Mannering would have known the truth — the worst — if the detective had delayed the visit for another five minutes.

Did she want him to know?

Until that morning she had not. But now she felt that it would be wiser if he did. He would understand, she believed; he was remarkable for his power of understanding. And he would say nothing, and make no protest