Meet The Baron

Almost at the same moment the policemen by the window dragged Bristow into the room. Tanker Tring was wondering what in heaven’s name had happened, but he concentrated on taking charge of the situation as it was. He found a decanter of whisky and poured a generous portion between Bristow’s lips. He grunted as his superior spluttered and coughed, and absent-mindedly tasted the spirits. He’d learn everything soon enough.

CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE

BRISTOW DISLIKES HIS JOB

DETECTIVE-INSPECTOR WILLIAM BRISTOW LOOKED MOROSELY at his sergeant, but said nothing. Tring was eaten up with curiosity, but he knew when to ask questions and when to keep silent. He stared idly at the half- empty decanter.

Bristow muttered something inaudible under his breath.

The two detectives who had helped in his rescue had gone back to the Yard, with the woman-detective. Bristow knew that it was useless to look for the bullet now. He didn’t feel that he wanted to look for the bullet. He remembered the terrible moment when he had dangled over the window-ledge, and he remembered the relief that had surged through him when Mannering had gripped him. And then, when he had recovered well enough to take charge, he had seen Mannering stretched out on the floor, and he had seen the pool of blood from the wound which had reopened in the Baron’s shoulder.

Bristow was a man, as well as a policeman. He knew that he had been saved from death — or at least from severe injuries — by Mannering’s efforts, and he could guess how much those efforts had cost the other man. And yet. . .

Mannering was the Baron.

Bristow grunted again. He was a policeman, and a policeman had no right to allow sentiment of any kind to interfere with his duty. He knew that Mannering was the Baron, and that in that flat there was enough to prove it. The bullet might be missing, but the jewels would still be there.

That bitterness he had felt towards Mannering because of the ease with which the other had outwitted him and duped him was gone. It was a straightforward job of being a policeman that remained, but it was the most distasteful one that he had ever experienced; nevertheless it had to be done.

He got up suddenly and started to speak. Before he had said two words, however, Lorna Fauntley came out of the bedroom. Her face was pale, her tone almost listless.

“He’ll have to have a doctor,” she said.

Bristow motioned to the telephone. Tanker, not unaware of the woman’s beauty, clambered up with rather clumsy courtesy and muttered: “I’ll get one along, miss.”

Bristow stared at the girl, who eyed him more than a little wearily.

“Well?” she said.

“I don’t like it,” muttered Bristow, “but it’s got to be done. Did he bring a case with him last night?”

Lorna’s lip tightened obstinately. Bristow passed a hand across his forehead.

“For heaven’s sake don’t make it difficult!” he snapped. “It’ll be the same in the long run. We’re bound to find it.”

She hesitated, and then nodded. Her voice was dull.

“All right,” she said. “It’s in there — the bedroom. He’s still unconscious — don’t make a noise.”

Bristow grunted, and walked heavily towards the room, feeling no satisfaction.

Lorna waited until the door closed behind him. She glanced at Tanker Tring, whose back was towards her, and who was saying “hallo” deliberately and tirelessly into the mouthpiece. If either of them had looked at her at that moment they must have known that something was wrong. But neither of them did. She slipped a key into the lock of the bureau-drawer, opened it quickly and silently, and took the little bundle of pearls that was there, wrapped in cottonwool, with Mannering’s blue mask. The Rosa pearls. Mannering had told her of them a few minutes before, and she was making a last effort; even now it might fail.

She slipped the things into the “V” of her dress, and pushed the drawer back. Tring muttered into the telephone for a moment, and replaced it, turning round and seeing the girl learning wearily against the bureau, motionless. He grunted again. Something was certainly wrong, and she’d had a nasty turn, that he knew.

Bristow opened the bedroom door at that moment, and came out.

There was a twisted smiled on his lips as he stared at Lorna, but her face was set. She looked completely beaten and hopeless. Bristow’s smile changed slowly to an expression of bewilderment. Surely it wasn’t possible that he’d been wrong?

He knew that it wasn’t. He knew that Mannering and the Baron were one and the same.

But he couldn’t prove it! The bullet was gone, and the brown suit-case in the bedroom was filled with the costume of a Charles II beau! There were no jewels!

“Turn this place inside-out,” he snapped to Tring.

Tanker shrugged his shoulders, deciding that it was not a moment to speak, and started his job.

Lorna Faundey had never seen the police at work before. She was surprised by the thoroughness of the search. Drawers, pictures, carpets, furniture, everything was moved and turned inside-out, and everything was replaced in its exact position.

But there was nothing there which could interest them, and Lorna’s heart was beating fast.

Bristow called enough at last. He looked at the girl, and he was uncertain whether there was triumph in her eyes or whether it was sheer relief. He was inclined to think that it was relief. He shrugged.

“I don’t know how he did it,” he muttered, half to himself, “but he did.” He glared at Tring. “Why the blazes don’t you stop staring?” he snapped. “Get out, can’t you?”