The Baron Goes East

The Baron Goes East

 

First published in 1953

© John Creasey Literary Management Ltd.; House of Stratus 1971-2014

 

All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted, in any form, or by any means (electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise), without the prior permission of the publisher. Any person who does any unauthorised act in relation to this publication may be liable to criminal prosecution and civil claims for damages.

 

The right of John Creasey to be identified as the author of this work has been asserted.

 

This edition published in 2014 by House of Stratus, an imprint of

Stratus Books Ltd., Lisandra House, Fore Street, Looe,

Cornwall, PL13 1AD, UK.

 

Typeset by House of Stratus.

 

A catalogue record for this book is available from the British Library and the Library of Congress.

 

 

This is a fictional work and all characters are drawn from the author's imagination.

Any resemblance or similarities to persons either living or dead are entirely coincidental.

 

www.houseofstratus.com

 

 

 

John Creasey – Master Storyteller - was born in Surrey, England in 1908 into a poor family in which there were nine children, John Creasey grew up to be a true master story teller and international sensation. His more than 600 crime, mystery and thriller titles have now sold 80 million copies in 25 languages. These include many popular series such as
Gideon of Scotland Yard, The Toff, Dr Palfrey and The Baron
.

Creasey wrote under many pseudonyms, explaining that booksellers had complained he totally dominated the 'C' section in stores. They included:

 

Gordon Ashe, M E Cooke, Norman Deane, Robert Caine Frazer, Patrick Gill, Michael Halliday, Charles Hogarth, Brian Hope, Colin Hughes, Kyle Hunt, Abel Mann, Peter Manton, J J Marric, Richard Martin, Rodney Mattheson, Anthony Morton and Jeremy York.

 

Never one to sit still, Creasey had a strong social conscience, and stood for Parliament several times, along with founding the
One Party Alliance
which promoted the idea of government by a coalition of the best minds from across the political spectrum.

He also founded the
British Crime Writers' Association
, which to this day celebrates outstanding crime writing.
The Mystery Writers of America
bestowed upon him the
Edgar Award
for best novel and then in 1969 the ultimate
Grand Master Award
. John Creasey's stories are as compelling today as ever.

 

 

The diamond stood on a pad of black velvet, caught in the bright light which shone above the desk. John Mannering sat looking at it dreamily. He was alone in the small office at the rear of his shop – Quinns. Outside, the life of the West End of London throbbed with all its mid-week vigour, but hardly a sound reached Mannering's ears. Inside, within a few paces of the office door, were treasures of the ages. Bejewelled caskets, daggers encrusted with fortunes in precious stones, miniatures painted by masters, pieces of furniture steeped in antiquity. Quinns was a treasure house to which lovers of precious things were drawn from all over the world.

Mannering was oblivious of everything else as he studied the diamond.

It wasn't large. In his strong-room below the shop and approached by a trap-door in the floor, were a dozen larger. It was beautifully cut, but that did not make it exceptional. Yet he had never seen one like it before, and he sat in front of it as if he were worshipping its beauty.

From the centre of the diamond there came light, a blue light. It was as if a tiny blue fire blazed within the stone, yet was cold. This colour spread from the centre to the outer edges, making a cold star of blue fire.

A bell rang, not far off.

Mannering did not move or look away; his face seemed to be carved out of bronze.

There was a tap at the door.

Mannering drew in his breath. Forcing his attention from the diamond to the door seemed to demand a physical as well as mental effort. He called “Come in”, but glanced back at the diamond.

A small man with curly grey hair said: “I'm sorry to disturb you, Mr. Mannering.”

He stopped, as if silenced by Mannering's expression. Mannering looked as if he were out of this world, living in some fabulous land of the mind. The grey-haired man drew back quickly.

Outside, someone said: “Isn't he there?”

The door closed.

Mannering moved suddenly, pushing the case with the diamond away from him. He had heard the man say “Isn't he there?” and had recognised the voice – that had broken the spell of the blue diamond. He stood up, took out cigarettes and lit one, then opened the door.

The man with the familiar voice spoke again.

“Don't talk out of the back of your neck, Larraby. I'll go in myself.”

Mannering stepped into the back of the shop as a man of medium height came towards him, smoking a cigarette. The newcomer was well-dressed in grey, his greying hair was brushed straight back from his forehead, his small moustache was stained yellow with nicotine. He wore a gardenia in his button-hole, and his movements had a nervous briskness.

“Good morning, Bill,” welcomed Mannering.

“What's the matter with you?” demanded Superintendent Bristow of New Scotland Yard. “Larraby came out looking as if he'd seen a ghost. What have you got in the office?”

“Nothing that's been stolen!”

“I wonder,” said Bristow gruffly.

He was serious enough to make Mannering frown. Larraby, further along the shop, raised his eyebrows, as if to show his despair of all policemen.

“Come and see for yourself,” invited Mannering.

Bristow went ahead. There was a small Queen Anne desk with a single chair behind it and room for a winged armchair facing it, with a third in the far corner. This chair was actually on the carpet covering the trap-door which led to the strong-room. The shelves were lined with books. There were a few old prints on the walls, and above the desk a portrait of Mannering. His wife Lorna had painted it.

It was a brilliant work, capturing more than Mannering's good looks: his air of well-being, his natural confidence. It captured something which few people knew was there. A young niece, coming to Quinns for the first time and seeing the portrait, had squeezed Lorna Mannering's hand and cried: “Lorna, darling, no wonder you married him! Why don't you give him a cloak and sword? It would go perfectly with that glint in his eyes and the swagger. John,
darling
, don't you sometimes want to be a pirate? A buccaneer? And go swashbuckling round the world? You're
exactly
right for it.”

“Sit down, Bill.” Mannering offered cigarettes, went to the door and called: “Tea, Josh, please,” and returned to his chair behind the desk. Bristow was staring at the blue diamond. “No bad men about demanding your attention?” inquired Mannering. “No duty calling at police courts and the Old Bailey? No one stealing any jools?”

Bristow took his gaze from the diamond, as if reluctantly. A smile put vitality into his face, taking away the nervous tension. He had good, even features, but somehow missed being handsome.

“Have you lifted any lately?”

“Not for years and years!”

‘That's the nearest you've ever got to admitting that you once lived by theft,” growled Bristow. As he drew at his cigarette his eyes challenged Mannering's. “What were you up to just now? What made you drive Larraby out?”

“I hardly knew he came in, but heard your dulcet tones and thought I'd better find out what you wanted.”

“Try telling the truth.”

“You'd never believe me, truth or lie.”

“What were you up to? Hiding something? These, for instance.” Bristow took an envelope from his pocket, extracted a dozen photographs and handed them across the desk. Mannering studied each, talking as he looked.

“All new to me, Bill. What are they?”

“Photographs of jewels.”

“You are in a pleasant mood this morning.” He paused. “Whose jewels?”

“The Rangipore Collection,” Bristow answered. “Now tell me you've never heard of them. They're the Indian jewels Kallidon brought from New York to offer to old Morency, who is supposed to be interested in anything Indian. They were stolen from him two nights ago. The press gave it far more space than it deserved – but, of course, you never read about jewel robberies, do you?”

There had been headlines in most of the newspapers, for the jewels, worth a small fortune, had been sold in New York by an Indian prince who had clashed with his government.

“If you're asking whether I've been offered them – no,” said Mannering.

“What were you hiding when Larraby looked in?”

“Have a look round while you're here.”

“I may, at that,” said Bristow.

Larraby brought tea in a silver teapot on a silver tray. He then went out, looking at Mannering with eyes which asked: “Trouble?” He was given no answer. Mannering poured out.

Bristow seemed to relax. “Seriously, John, keep your eyes and ears open for the Rangipores. It's not just another jewel robbery.”

“It looks like one to me.”

“They belonged to this wealthy prince. It's said that a group of zealots in India hate the prince's guts for getting out and living the life of luxury and ease in America on the proceeds of the jewels – which ought to go towards alleviating famine and poverty at home. It's suggested that the zealots meant to get them back and turn them into cash. I don't know if they took them. I do know that it was a good amateur job. Not in your class. They probably won't be offered to Quinns direct, but you or Larraby may hear something.”

“Possibly.” Mannering was thinking of the zealots – and this blue stone.

“Thanks.” Bristow sipped tea, looking at the blue diamond. “Larraby's looking very prosperous. Has he had a rise lately?”

“And promotion,” said Mannering. “He's no longer the odd-job man about the place, he's manager. Lorna says I need a holiday. We shall probably go away for a month or so, and Josh will look after things better than most.”

Bristow switched his gaze sharply from the diamond.

“I'll never understand you,” he said. “Take an ex-convict into Quinns, then give him a golden chance to loot the shop. Don't be surprised if he gets away with everything here.”

“Forget it,” said Mannering. “You'd trust him as far as I would.”

“What's this about a holiday?”

“All inquiries to my wife, it's her idea.”

“Abroad?”

“Probably.”

“Tell me where,' said Bristow, “and I'll cable the police of the unhappy country that they're going to give hospitality to the cleverest safe-breaker who ever kept out of prison.”

Mannering didn't smile; that seemed to surprise Bristow. Mannering offered cigarettes again and poured out another cup of tea. His expression was almost disagreeable.

“There are times when I could dislike you,” he said. “When are you going to stop making dark allusions to my imaginary past? You're getting worse. We can't meet in the street without you making a crack, and if someone else is with us it's a cryptic comment that sets them wondering. I'm getting tired of it.”

Bristow listened and watched with rounded eyes.

“You think I was once the jewel-thief known as the Baron,” said Mannering in the same even voice. “You've never been able to prove it, and you never will. During the past ten years I've risked my neck a dozen times, and my freedom a dozen more, to help you put a criminal in dock and in jail. Let's have a few more references to that and fewer allusions to the Baron.”

“My, my,” said Bristow. “What's happened to your sense of humour?”

“You need a joke for a sense of humour.”

“Hm.” Bristow's eyes were still questioning. “How old are you? Nearing middle-age? Lord save you from becoming as pompous as you sound now.” He finished his tea and stood up. “You'll keep an eye open for this Indian stuff, won't you?” He touched the photographs.

“I've already said I will.”

“Thanks.” Bristow turned towards the door, then looked back. His gaze fell on the blue diamond again. “What's the blue stone?”

“A diamond,” said Mannering heavily. He leaned across the desk, picked up the case and handed it to Bristow. Outside the trade, few people knew so much as he about precious stones.

Bristow studied and admired.

“Perfect. I can't say that I've heard about blue diamonds.”

“I hadn't either, until this turned up. It's Indian. Old Aly Phiroshah sent it and said that he would write and tell me what it was all about. I haven't heard from him yet.” The gleam made a brief return to Mannering's eyes as suspicion leapt into Bristow's. “Legal cargo, by air – on the manifest and checked by Customs.”

“Who suggested it wasn't?” Bristow hedged. “Isn't Phiroshah dead yet? When he was in London ten years ago he looked as if he were dying on his feet.”

“He's still alive,” Mannering said and took the diamond back. “India's very busy in the jewel trade.”

“It's an odd coincidence,” Bristow said, and didn't add: “If it is a coincidence.” “Do you think Phiroshah is honest?”

“As the day.”

Mannering saw Bristow to the door and watched him go along Hart Row, the narrow turning off Bond Street where Quinns and a few other small, narrow-fronted shops were situated. Quinns was the narrowest and probably the most exclusive; most of the atmosphere of Hart Row came from it. It was Elizabethan, with nothing built on. The roof was of red tiles, to which lichen gave a softening green. There were gables and old oak, and on the fascia board the single word Quinns painted in gilt in Old English lettering.

The window held a single jewelled dagger. This rested on black velvet, and the jewels in the hilt seemed to give life and light to the blackness. Mannering saw this out of the corner of his eye as he turned and walked back along the narrow shop. On either side of the passage antiques stood in gloom, but lights could be switched on to show each piece to advantage. Prints, miniatures, Dutch panels and some framed Chinese embroideries were on the walls. Mannering walked past all these and turned into the office.

Larraby stood contemplating the blue diamond; his love for precious stones was like a man's love for a woman. He turned his gentle face to Mannering, but didn't speak. They smiled with complete understanding. Then the bell of the shop door rang.

“I'll see who it is.” Larraby turned, then stopped in the passage, narrow just outside the door. “Mr. Mannering,” he said softly, “I think Phiroshah's messenger has arrived.”

Mannering picked up the jewel-case, snapped it shut, and slipped it into his pocket before following Larraby.

At the far end of the shop stood a young woman dressed in a dark red sari; it was as if she had been transported from India and dropped into Quinns. She made no move as Mannering passed Larraby and approached her.