Meet The Baron

annoyance to satisfaction at Mannering’s words. Keeping his gun trained on his prisoners, he reached for the telephone. It was one of the new type, and he had no difficulty in talking and keeping his captives under his eyes. They were caught. Mannering might have moved and taken a chance, but he would not risk Lorna.

“Scotland Yard,” Bristow grunted. There was a pause. Then: “Sergeant Tring? Oh, Tring, come along to Mannering’s flat, in Brook Street, with two plain-clothes men and a woman. Yes, a woman. That’s all. Don’t lose any time.”

He replaced the receiver with a flourish.

That just about finished you,” he said evenly, and he smiled, more like the old Bill Bristow well known and liked in the East End. “I’ll admit you gave me a shock, Mannering, and I’ll admit it was luck that I found you, but — we always get our man.”

Mannering shrugged his shoulders. He contrived to smile, but he felt no humour. The end was coming, quickly, undramatically. His recent burglaries and his successes seemed to lose a great deal of their glitter.

He seemed to picture the crowded court, the judge and jury, the droning voice of the prosecutor. It would be child’s play for the Crown. There was hardly a possible line of defence. Even Toby Plender wouldn’t be able to do anything, clever though he was.

Mannering felt physically sick.

Bristow seemed to realise it, and naturally felt a malicious pleasure. It rankled deeply that he had been made such a complete fool, and even now he was wondering what Lynch’s comment would be.

“It’ll be in your favour,” he said, “that you didn’t try force, Mannering. And it’s luck for you that you don’t carry firearms.”

Mannering shrugged his shoulders again, and Lorna’s eyes were very wide. She was gripping Mannering’s sound arm, and he could feel her fingers trembling. Neither of them spoke.

“I suppose you wouldn’t like to tell me where I’ll find the stuff?” suggested Bristow, fingering his moustache. “It would save a lot of time.”

Mannering made a big effort.

“What stuff?” he asked. His voice was remarkably steady, and he surprised even himself.

There was a gleam of admiration in Bristow’s eyes.

“You’re game,” he said grudgingly.

Lorna broke out as the words left the Inspector’s lips. Her poise had gone now, and her breast was heaving.

“John — don’t let it happen! Take a chance. You can get away; you must, you must! You mustn’t let them get you. John . . .”

Mannering gripped her arm soothingly; her outburst gave him new strength.

“Steady,” he said. “There’s no sense in losing your head, my dear. Bristow’s got an idea that I’m the Baron, and he won’t be satisfied until it’s been proved to the contrary. So . . .”

Lorna swallowed hard. She looked up at the man at her side, and saw his face set in a strange smile. He would fight to the last, of course.

There was a fleeting expression of doubt in Bristow’s eyes, but it was gone in a flash. He laughed rather harshly, and moved his gun.

“That’ll cut no ice when we’ve found the stuff you took from Ramon’s,” he said. “And the bullet.”

“No?” Mannering was very cool. His mind was working at top speed, on one thing and one thing only. The bullet.

How could he get round that substantial piece of evidence? Was there a way out, other than losing the bullet? Must this be the end ?

“No,” snapped Bristow.

Mannering bent his head suddenly, until his lips were very close to Lorna’s ear. Bristow’s gun moved a fraction of an inch threateningly.

“No tricks,” he warned.

“Try and slip it in my pocket,” whispered Mannering. Don’t answer.” He straightened up, and grinned at Bristow. “Couldn’t we sit down now ?” he demanded.

The detective was bristling with suspicion.

“I’ve warned you,” he said, “and if you try any tricks, Mannering, you’ll make acquaintance with another bullet. I’ve had more than enough of the Baron — a lot more.”

“I find him a little too universal myself,” smiled Mannering.

As he spoke he moved, and Lorna slipped the bullet from her hand into his pocket. Or almost into it. At the critical moment he moved again, and the little lump of lead dropped to the floor. The plop came as Lorna gasped out in consternation. Bristow’s eyes glittered, and he made his first mistake.

He darted towards the bullet. Mannering saw him, loosed his left arm, and swung it at the detective with every ounce of strength in his body. Bristow realised the ruse a fraction of a second too late. He saw the clenched fist loom in front of his eyes, and then there came the sickening thud of fist on bone and flesh. Bristow went sprawling, his eyes rolling as he fell.

Lorna seemed petrified; the thing had happened so swiftly. Mannering swung towards the telephone while Bristow was still dropping to the floor. He had dialled his number before Bristow’s head dropped back, but he need not have worried, for his man was unconscious.